Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

We all know those three little words that hold so much power over us. Longing to hear someone – anyone – utter those words in a heat of passion. Or in the perfect empty moments when the hush has fallen over a conversation and you’re staring at each other from across the table, room, seat. How it appears on a text message one night after a conversation of how much this person missed you in their life. Maybe it’s wine-induced, sure. Maybe it’s just the heat of the moment. But maybe it’s not.

I’ve never had a boy tell me he loved me, but I’ve had plenty of girls who uttered it like magic words to spellbind me. But I have loved boys. And I have loved men. I have adored both binary genders and those who coast at the edges of what’s deemed “normal” to a blinded society.

I have loved those I didn’t deserve, and fortunately they have loved me in returned. I have loved those who didn’t deserve me. I have loved those who deserved my love, but fell unrequited.

Funny thing about love – it’s easily tossed aside, projected without meaning. As you’ll see in Edwin Bodney’s “When a Boy Tells You He Loves You.” Please enjoy.

When a boy tells you he loves you
You will hear music
The voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat
Your stomach, in after hours cabaret, still waiting on the last call
That was when you learned that when a boy says “I love you” he means I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now

You can read more of Edwin Bodney’s poetry in A Study of Hands, published by Not a Cult.

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