“Song of Ourselves” (A Letter to My Crush, Part 7)

“Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,/Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;/Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome…/Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,/You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room…/The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,/they do not ask who seizes fast to them,/They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,/They do not think whom they souse with spray.”

…and that was just a snippet of your reading of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” God, you were flawless: no mistakes, perfect enunciation, with just the right balance between restraint and passion.

However, it wasn’t for anyone other than our group of four during section on Friday; you were just reciting the poem to start off the close reading that we needed to do. But nevertheless, I got eargasms listening to you. Your voice. I don’t know if you’d live in the South for a good portion of your life, but I detected hints of a drawl. I find them genteel, extremely endearing. I just want to talk to you all day, just to listen to you talk. Or read aloud another poem, as sexy as Mr. Walt Whitman 😉

I like how Whitman played with the concept of “the gaze,” turning it on its head with the woman’s view of the “twenty-eight young men [bathing] by the shore.” Instead of the male gaze objectifying women, it is the woman gaze commodifying men. And I would like to gaze at you, your big, brown eyes bright and soulful. God, you’re so cute…

You weren’t there Monday for lecture. Saw you Wednesday, but the seat next to me was taken. You saw me, you would have sat next to me if the spot hadn’t been taken. Alas, I was disappointed.

But we’ll be seeing each other still, for the next few weeks with the group project. Maybe we’ll meet somewhere outside of class, and actually talk. Not just about the project, but also about ourselves. We’ll talk, we’ll probably laugh, we’ll sing the “Song of Ourselves.” That, I hope, is all that I ask for.

– The Finicky Cynic

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