An aborted attempt at a poem for my coworker Angie Rodriguez in June 2019. I asked her out; she said maybe and kept me waiting for four weeks for a straight answer, and then only gave me one after she found out that I found out she had started dating someone. She was completely not worth the sentiments I expressed in this poem, and I don't know what I was smoking.
Angie
By C. Randall Nicholson
Angie,
I don't want to play games. I don't want to pretend I'm not wildly infatuated with you when I am.
Yet whenever I try to write this poem about you, I almost give up before I can begin, so inadequate my words seem to describe my feelings, let alone you. This is my best effort. Forgive me.
I didn't think you were attractive. I swear I didn't. Maybe I just didn't want to.
I noticed you, though. Don't ask me why because I don't know. I only talked to you because God told me to, okay? Okay?
And then you hit me over the head with a bag of infatuation bricks. And it hurt and it felt wonderful.
How can something be so logical, yet such a mystery? How is it that I can outline a rational basis for my feelings, but I can't explain them? I don't know how you did this to me, how you transformed before my eyes.
Why does your gaze turn my insides into jelly?
Why does your proximity cut my IQ in half?
Why does every word you speak wrap me tighter around your finger?
I gave up science, but had I stuck with it, my claim to fame would be naming the Angie – a scientific unit of cuteness. One Angie is the maximum amount of possible cuteness known to man. So puppies, for example, would be in the 0.7 Angie range. Few creatures go higher than that. In fact, I'm only aware of one.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
I don't want to play games. I don't want to pretend I'm not wildly infatuated with you when I am.
Yet whenever I try to write this poem about you, I almost give up before I can begin, so inadequate my words seem to describe my feelings, let alone you. This is my best effort. Forgive me.
I didn't think you were attractive. I swear I didn't. Maybe I just didn't want to.
I noticed you, though. Don't ask me why because I don't know. I only talked to you because God told me to, okay? Okay?
And then you hit me over the head with a bag of infatuation bricks. And it hurt and it felt wonderful.
How can something be so logical, yet such a mystery? How is it that I can outline a rational basis for my feelings, but I can't explain them? I don't know how you did this to me, how you transformed before my eyes.
Why does your gaze turn my insides into jelly?
Why does your proximity cut my IQ in half?
Why does every word you speak wrap me tighter around your finger?
I gave up science, but had I stuck with it, my claim to fame would be naming the Angie – a scientific unit of cuteness. One Angie is the maximum amount of possible cuteness known to man. So puppies, for example, would be in the 0.7 Angie range. Few creatures go higher than that. In fact, I'm only aware of one.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson