Wind blown, sun baked, and beautiful,
I said Italian, but she’s clearly German.
The type of woman you can’t capture with a poem.
But I said I’d write her one and it’s been a long time coming.

She must be a mechanic. She likes trucks, dirt bikes, and dune buggies.
When she looks at me I can feel her undoing my every nut and bolt
until I’m scrap on the floor capable of being something great.
All I had to do was build myself up.

She called me a machine once. And I believed her.
Back when all that mattered were rocks and stuff.
I put my faith in her as machines would only do.
I thought, machines can’t fix themselves (and I was wrong).

All I wanted was that sweet love. The kind that makes your insides hum.
The kind that makes you feel like you’re working. (or at least not broken)
Grease up my pieces and get this machine running again.
But even mechanics need someone to help keep their pieces together.

Now that my engines running I’ve recently tightened my bolts.
This machine’s capable of adventures (the kind you build your life around).
But those roads are best traveled with a mechanic to fix you when you’re down.
And I’ve lost the best one in the world.

05/06/2011

Author's Note: I said I'd write her a poem. Now I have finally done one.

Posted on 05/06/2011
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