Last night I was once again haunted by the beauty of a poem called Having A Coke With You written by Frank O’Hara. And up to this day I still feel the same awe the first time I read it years back, thought I wanted to write something like it. And so I pushed the actor in me out of the pen and tried to embody O’Hara’s same tune and rhythm with the poem. What I came up with is probably not even half as good as what he has written but at least I tried. And although I don’t speak of a real person as a subject, my mind came about infinity of unwavering imagination if there were really someone I’m dedicating this poem to. Anyway, without further ado, here it is, my own Having A Coke With You.
I fall not with your full pocket,
Not when you fancy me with the finest dinner in a state of the art restaurant like how a billionaire lover does.
I fall when your hands strangely demonstrate your unreconcilable thoughts,
Mostly when they, too, hold me in times of my confusion.
I fall not with your easy way with crowd, or how they treat you as if a famous celebrity although you’re not.
It’s eloquence of your humor and unrelenting patience during my throwing a fit that had me at peace.
I fall not with how perfect your eyes and lips are, like those of an angel that actually never existed. Not in this world, anyway. But I get lost every time they speak of wisdom, honesty, bravery, forgiveness and sympathy.
I fall not with the way you trace your fingers on my shoulder. It’s the tender care and respect I feel from deep beyond your touch that make me shiver. Not to mention their willingness to wipe the tears away from my ugly crying face.
However perfect you seem to be with these words, you aren’t exactly. Nobody is. But I tell you: the way your hair turns frizzy and stiff whenever it’s blown away by the wind, making you look like an unprepared clown in a children’s party;
your unbearable stinky feet whenever you take your shoes off and;
the fact that you can never spell Matthew McConaughey’s last name without looking it up on the internet —
in million years I’d live with these troubles in contentment than own the most squeaky gadgets out there, or the latest designer shoes and bags that define a stereotypical woman.
Not because I’m not a typical woman, but because you make me feel like the most precious one.
Because you never fall whenever I gently put on my make up with mastery,
Not with the way my dresses accentuate my curves perfectly,
Mostly not when my perfume lingers on your body,
But because you’d rather hear me endlessly talk of my hate against the antagonist I recently read on a book.
Because your face lights up multi neon fireworks whenever I hand and ask you to read the manuscript I’d been rewriting forever without fruition.
And you shout at me while I scream at you when we fight. It’s an orchestra concert we perform — Bach’s treasured composition.
And after you’d kiss the scar on my elbow and remark it as the hero of my existence.
It’s the beauty of our imperfections that make us continuously fall.
Just let me fall.
It’s the kind of falling that need not catching.