I Don’t Write Poetry—Wyatt Dalton

The way he bit his lower lip when he wanted to look like he was concentrating, well, it was perfect. He was perfect. Just as he should be. Just for a moment, I actually believed that he needed to concentrate, but just for a moment.

He was walking beside me again, up on the low rock wall that lined the path. His arms spread wide, as if he were walking a tightrope and needed to keep his balance. He was never in danger of falling, of course—I wouldn’t let that happen—I think the real reason he spread his arms like that was because it made him feel like he was flying.

“Why don’t you like your poetry, Bigs?” He was saying. I had almost forgotten about this part, he always brought up the poetry thing around here. “I like it a lot. It’s pretty. Makes me feel… Oh, I don’t know! It just makes me feel.”

I didn’t have to take the sidelong glance at his shining face, or hear the ringing of silvery bells in his voice, to know how my sporadic poetic tendencies made him feel. How can perfection become more perfect? Tell it about your poetry, apparently.

“I don’t write poetry.”

“Yes you do. I’ve seen it.”

“No, I don’t.” I shook my head and looked at him, taking in as much perfection as I could before the moment passed. “I just find words that sound nice together and write them down.” His shining features dampened a little as he tried to make sense of what I was saying. “Is it pretty? Maybe. Sometimes. But in the end, it’s just a bunch of words scratched on paper.”

“No. No it’s not.” He reached toward me, a look on his face that broke my heart every time. He didn’t understand. He never understood. But this way hurt so much less. “It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It is poetry. ”

I wanted so badly to agree—to invite him to stay with me for just a little bit longer and talk about everything that was beautiful and perfect—but I couldn’t let him follow me any further.

“No, it’s not. They’re just words, my words, my ramblings.” I looked away from him and squeezed my eyes shut. tears forcing their way out as I willed myself to go on. “It’s not poetry, it’s not beautiful and it’s not perfect… Not like you.”

“I, am not perfect!” The bells in his voice were gone, replaced by a sound like the screeching of car tires—a sound that had been burned into my memories long ago. “I’m, I’m not, perfect.”

I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see what I knew came next—I didn’t want to see the blood pouring out of his open skull, I didn’t want to see the twisted limbs, I didn’t want to see the agony painted onto his face, I didn’t want to stare into the eyes that were once so full of light, but were now glazed over, lifeless.

“I’m dead, Bigs. I’m, dead! Why won’t you look at me? Bigs? Bigs!”

“You’re right.” I kept my eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the tears from pouring out. “You’re dead, and I killed you.”

He was gone. He always vanished after that, but I kept my eyes closed for a while longer, just to be sure.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Smalls.”