"You write poetry too?"
I do write poetry. I do not tell him that it's very bad poetry. That what I write would never be published in my biography. That so much of it is birthed in the deepest part of my being, yet the words I have are cheap, common cliches. It is enough that I write poetry. It is enough that there are two of us in the room, who moments before didn't notice the other, but now have a random common link.
"Do you have any on you?"
"Not today. It's all memorized. Do you?"
"Actually, yeah, I was wondering if you would read some of mine. So I could get a strangers opinion." Out of the depths of a hidden pocket, he pulls two folded papers and gives them to me.
It is a brave thing to do. Because when the product of your soul is in the hands of another person, you will never feel more vulnerable. You can take any criticism, sure, and you appreciate it. But at the same time, you know they might not be honest. They might hate you for letting them read it. The worst thing they could do is laugh, or take something lightly that was written in all solemnity. People who do not write may appreciate, but do not understand the writer. Though we may treat ourselves lightly, within there is nothing more personal, more intensely a part of us than what we write.
I read his poems. I give them back, tell him honestly what I think, and leave.
When next we meet, we will smile, exchange a few words, and think, "There is another poet."

Orange juice.

Umbrellas.

Pink scarves.

Hats.

Pistachios.

Things that make me smile.

It is a perfect rose. A slender, long bud tainted a delicate pink, oh so softly whispering of darker colors in it's heart. Each petal perfectly intact, perfectly shaped, perfectly formed by an invisible hand. I almost thought it wasn't real. I was in the mood to buy a rose, but couldn't think who to get one for. So I got it for myself. Selfish, perhaps, but so rewarding. It is a perfect rose.

Try to match up a pile of black socks in the dark. It's very entertaining.

"Hidden in a deep foist, there lived a beutiful lady and a very hansom prince. But the beutiful lady lived far, far away..."
Thus begins the first of my writing experiments. I ran across it in an ancient notebook of mine. I could not have been more than six years old, but even then, the idea of a 'hansom prince' and a 'beutiful lady' was appealing to my little mind. Isn't it funny how every fairy tale involves a romance? Little girls are brought up on it - on waiting for their handsome, charming prince, and isn't he always a prince, to transform them with a kiss. To wake them from the blissful sleep of childhood into the supposedly blissful dream of the grownup world. That line stands solitary on the page, but amid the childish drawings of ballerinas, contains mystery, romance, and tragedy. Vague concepts merely passing through a little girls head. Vague concepts that never should have dawned until years later.