Could it be we’re a never-satisfied people? Might it be that she’s seeking an elusive nirvana with him that she, alone, can’t seem to self-generate? Or are our ever-amped expectations of love on the edge of a constant lie?

I haven’t the answers, babygirl. I’m no psychoanalyst. But I am a poet. And, woman, I believe in love. My belief comes with precautions, however. Well, one in particular: How does it feel in my company . . . on a spontaneous picnic . . . on a random summer’s day . . . at the edge of a cliff overlooking a calm, deep, blue sea?

My poem for you:

Rest your body atop my soft-to-touch blanket
Hand-stitched so as not to damage the fragrant grass,
The air’s velocity is tender, so we may share the splendor
A summertime moment has come for us, it has

Tell me where your heart lies at this time, woman
No, the question isn’t loaded—I’m just being real,
Is it on the verge of migration from a cruel host
Few men can interpret a woman’s capacity to feel

Vulnerable yet strong . . . and fragile yet stern
Willing to love, though much less so to trust,
If you entered his life, and he yours, in a haze
The premise was false: relationship or bust?

Nah, babygirl, that mustn’t be how love goes
I can speak from experience, I’ve made mistakes,
I regret not sharing a simple, elegant picnic with her
Having written, alone, my poetry by the ponds and lakes

That have since dried up from a benign neglect
Summer rain, by God, has replenished a few,
I promised myself were I to cross the path
Of a distinctive woman, I’d know just what to do . . .

Slowly, maturely, less cautiously would I
Allow her my company and the privilege of hers,
To share the warmth of an early summer sun
That she may release her truths and if that occurs

Mine, too, will be less inhibited to pour
Into the summertime air that we share on a cliff,
The seaside view we can freely speak into
Just breathe on me girl as I take a slow, deep whiff

Of your fragrance and a gaze into your story-filled eyes
My name is Roy, as was my father’s, too,
May I feed you the comestibles I brought—and my prose
I’m an emotional writer, girl, may I emote on you?

Like no other man alive can, I swear I can
Relinquish those fears you’ve harbored overlong,
If love letters are foreign to you, that neglect is past
Consider this poem the first of a throng . . .

Slowly, maturely, less cautiously can we
Introduce ourselves to one another and say,
It’s okay, it’s truly okay to befriend this writer
Over a cliff’s-edge picnic on Pamper-Her-Friday

Will you join me?

-Rg2

________

***
Pamper the woman . . . for a summer’s romance. -Rg2

© 2019 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®