Ode to the ISFP

As I sat there on that makeshift bench
Of cinder blocks and a skateboard laid across
I watched him strum the strings like no one had before
He took passion captive setting my cold blood on fire
His emotion and his guitar akin in unison
With his fingers on the strings
He roped me in along with every soul in reach
Rhythm was his nature and silence was from nurture
And as I watched the artist feel, and his creation emerge
I felt a dagger through my heart
I realized that I could never sense true beauty as he did
Or feel pain the way he does
As much as I was captivated and in awe of him on that porch
I would never be capable of ever complementing him
I was nil but an admirer, a dilettante, trying to escape
For my calculating eyes don’t see beauty, my ears don’t hear melody
It cuts through me so deeply, the pang of truth that broke the seal
He deserved far more than anything I’d ever have to offer
105 days of swallowing my differences
I hate myself that I couldn’t any longer
For now I have my logic and my reasons
These empty bottles and this pen
My fading memories of him
And this heart that won’t stop breaking.

The Artist

I explain my story to a visage I’ve never touched.
And has no last name.

Cheap cigarettes in late November.
I’m too old to fall in love.

An old house, transformed garage.
Paintings cover the walls.

Tall and slim, hair longer than mine.
I did not know then that they were his.

He asks me if I want to stay.
But it was the only reason I had come.

I break every taboo I have at once.
But I’m too smart to fall in love.

The tattoos come apparent.
The walls come down.

I find his soft lips through his coarse beard.
Cocaine sex, ash trays in bed.

A nightlong embrace, another taboo.
He shares few words with me.

Flip the vinyl as the sun comes in.
I cannot wait to fall in love.

The Square Peg, Round Hole Paradigm

He prefaced with each response,
“You’re such a nerd.”
I’m not.
I just have a higher IQ,
And like to read.
Am I really this shallow?
Or am I just that bored?
He’s an artist, a dog lover, an athlete.
Wholesome and philanthropic.
Simple.
Sweet.
Boring.
Yet here I am.
Interested.
Nonetheless.
120 days.
12 weeks to go.
He told me not to stammer.
“For you hardly know me yet.”
I informed him that my shortness of words,
Had far to do with his close to perfect symmetry.
And much to do
With what little we have.
In common.