The Poetry of Pronouns

Book summary

In "The Poetry of Pronouns: She. He. They.," two friends embark on a digital-age journey from 'What if?' to 'What next?' as their relationship evolves through text messages across a cellular divide. This collection of long-distance love poetry and prose explores the ups and downs of their connection, laying bare the vulnerabilities, uncertainties, and heartfelt emotions that come with love in the modern era. Will their love withstand the distance?

Excerpt from The Poetry of Pronouns

She – Tuck Away

Caught up in countless minutes of distant continental conversation.

There is beautiful bliss in finally being understood and seen.

Known and accepted for every part of me, not just the ‘smoke and mirrors’ beauty:

I scold myself for jeopardizing everything.

The days divide into ruminating riddles, as I attempt to place the exact moment his laughter became symphonic fragments of kaleidoscope light.

Was there a specific hour our friendship turned to this fire in my heart?

I’ve tried to pinpoint when I started to treasure the apples of his cheeks. What second of which month did I memorize the bends of his crow's feet? Each line, tiny little roadmaps to my daily joy.

This adoration for him is pure and perfect, like children twirling in the snow. The most pristine kind of love is sacrifice, me letting it go. Allowing it to melt into logic.

I tuck away the longing, the hope, the wishes. My feelings folded politely like a kerchief in the formal pocket suit he wore on his wedding day. What else can I do but smile and thank God he’s my friend, because his happiness is all that matters in the end.

He – Indistinct

By Twilight

Indistinct, she hovers at the periphery of my mind. I say mind and not eyes, for a person needs no eyes to love. You feel them, hear them, sense their presence with every atom of your heart and soul. You may flounder like a fish out of water but never quite drown as they engulf you. It becomes hard to breathe, every inhalation and exhalation catching in your throat. Who knew oxygen was made in her name? Who knew everything was made in her name?

By Night

I see her with her ink-black hair, a deeper shade of dream. Every time I stop to sleep, she’s smiling. Every time I stop to weep, she’s wiping the tears away. She pours across my body, a soothing balm. I’m so grateful, so humbled, so very much in pain. She tantalises with her spectral presence, so near, so far, so faint. The truth is, I’m in love with this ghost, and I’d die for her if it guaranteed our shimmering together.

By Dawn

The amber glow of her skin illuminates. My waking life twitches to her nearness, her almost being here. Those eyes have changed since last I imagined them, sometimes hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes green. I study them like I might a kite flying through the sky. She, like it, is tethered too far from my fingertips. Still, I see her. I will always see her. That counts for something, doesn't it?

By Day

I bask in her beauty as I bask in her brain. She delights. To have found an angel of my very own, only to see her wings clipped and folded. This is the dilemma of those in love: To fly or to not? A golden prairie reflects in her window, sometimes covered by snow. I know the hooting owl watches over her, but what I’d give to live in his tree. I shall wait whilst the sun rises to its zenith and slowly dips away, thinking only of her, always of her, whilst my own pathetic life ebbs away. Indistinct, but lovely, she fades into another day.