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"Over-Analyzing Artistic Relations"
by Jeph Johnson
This morning found me over-analyzing last night's events.
A maelstrom of difficult thoughts and theories intermingled with her morning grumpiness.
I saw more clearly how inconvenient it has been for her to spend the night with me, especially when sleep is at such a premium and I was unable to keep my hands off of her until I had completely fulfilled my desire to dive deeper into her end of the pool.
Her 6 a.m. departure was unexpected since our finale was at 2, but she had hinted at it's possibility, so it didn't surprise me.
Even though in past affairs morning bed snuggling would have been welcomed.
I am such an enigmatic lover.
I am a complete failure in some respects and in others I am convinced I am the best in the world.
Love making is a fine art form, similar to any of the fine arts,
Some seem blessed with an ability to play virtuoso instruments and others hold a steady hand with a brush.
There are authors who write epic novels and conductors who can bring an orchestra to crescendo with a baton.
I am neither.
I am just my favorite poet, happy with my little four stanza odes of bumper-sticker wisdom.
Lord knows I have read many back to myself and been amazed at their complexity, astonished by their rhyme and tantalized by their rhythm.
Last night the trick was convincing her my poetry is her favorite too.
She insists she isn't a big fan of long poems, yet her bookshelf is stockpiled with authors I couldn't even begin to read.
One way love making differs from poetry, is that in the fine arts it is not considered unfaithful to display your work for all to enjoy.
Many artists even indulge in more than one art form.
With love making, honing your craft on a different canvas or playing a new concert hall can turn your most ardent follower away.
A muse does not enjoy being pluralized.
With a nervously moody smile, nary a kiss underneath my holiday mistletoe, at 6:15 in the morning, she cast her goodbye over her shoulder like sodium and headed for her car promising she wouldn't have time to call me tonight, leaving me to my keyboard again.
My words splattered tonight while her grumpiness paralleled it.
And there's nothing else I can write to explain why over-analyzing continues to stifle artistic relations, so I've decided to start typing my poems on a piano.
