The title.

Two Row Boats was the title of the first poem I ever wrote for Leet (boy does it feel weird to use aliases). Before that poem, I hadn't been able to write for months, at the very least. I was weird and maybe depressed (or maybe coming out of a depression) and was transitioning through a hard phase of life, and it just felt like every word I tried to put on paper sounded like a bunch of pretentious whining.

And then I met Leet. To be completely honest and fair, when we met in person at my aunt and uncle's (it was the second time), we didn't really talk (I don't know that we spoke at all the first time, except for the moment when he tried to hand me the XBox controller, which I declined). I was drawn in by him somehow. And so I did the lamest thing I think a person could ever do, and went and found him on Myspace. I sent him this lameass message about being a good dad and having a lot of support, and figured he would see right through it and think I was a huge loser and would ignore the message and then make fun of me to my cousin and everyone would have a good laugh (except for me, who would be oblivious, but dying for a return message). Instead, I get this response that says he really wouldn't mind getting to know me...and I just couldn't believe it.

Somehow, we started messaging back and forth. I think it was about a week on Myspace, and then quickly changed to IM. It was the most exhilirating lame messaging I had ever experienced. We were both unemployed, so we would stay up until 5 or 6 AM just talking about nothing, but having a completely good time. And then one night, while waiting for that telling little beep of a response to something benign I had said, I got inspired. And thus, Two Row Boats was born.

two row boats.

this comfortable sea
between exchanges
carries just the right amount
of unspoken whispers
from my boat to yours.

i'd float an innocent kiss
inside a bottle,
did I think it would help.

the milky blue-green
swells like bathwater
in the pregnant pause,
and my ears prick
at the sound of the waves at the hull.

bow to stern
languidly gliding
there is a purpose under the stars,
and a yearning in the oars.