The Next Time He Asks Me About Bands

Let me start this off by saying I’m slightly distracted when the boy smiles.

Let me warn my future self I’m probably in for some type of heartache.

Let me remind my future self, he said I’d be bored of him “after two weeks”

But the next time he asks me about what music I like,

I won’t only say KPop.

The next time he asks me,

if there is a next time,

then this is what I’ll say:

PTX and therefore various other types of accapella.

My heart soars with songs like “Bohemian Rhapsody”,

“Carry On My Wayward Son”, and “Come Sail Away”.

It’s predictable and all too cliche.

And though I despise them,

I am a living and breathing one in and of myself.

The next time he asks me about bands

I’ll tell him:

Backstreet Boys


One Direction

Teen Top


I have infatuation with boy bands,

and sappy, catchy, yet poorly written rifts.

Don’t get me started on bridges.

The next time he asks me who my top three are:

I’ll tell him Ellie Goulding,

Florence + The Machine

and Ed Sheeran

Because they told me it was okay to struggle

in the relationship.

They told me that love can be destructive,


and beautiful in its devastation.

That in the wreck,

that in twisted scraps left over in your heart from when it collapsed in on itself,

from that time when you refused to let it function with a now bare,

a now spare room,

there are antiques to be admired,

and hope that has managed to survive in the rubble.

The next time he names bands that I don’t know,

I will beg him for mixed CDs,

I will acquaint myself with their melodic poetry.

I will learn their words,

their names,

until they are like fingerprints ingrained in my memory;

until they are are pass codes to unlock worlds,


and emotions that I didn’t know could stir within me.

The next time he stares at me quizzically,

I will gush about my love for all things 80s:


Billy Joel


The Cars


Michael Jackson

and even the one-hit wonders,

because how can he know me without knowing about “Come on, Eileen.”

If he is still standing by me at this point,
I will have no choice but to hug him.

The next time he asks me what’s most recently added to my iPod,

I will have to tell him New Politics

Arctic Monkeys,


and Miley.

I am sorry that I lack originality.

I will have to explain that I have a fascination with middle school R&B:

Chris Brown,


Ray J,

New Boyz.

But have no idea how to rap,

or what rap I know besides the three verses that are in

“Super Bass”,


and the scarce lines from “Pound the Alarm”;

all Nicki.

Will he know that I was rocked to sleep by Motown

and woken up by rock anthems in the course of driving between

Florida and the border of South Carolina?

That when I awoke to Twisted Sister, half the time I was singing along.

Classic rock comes on the radio,

and somehow,

I can manage to make out the chorus?
And though I don’t know ACDC well enough,

“Get Loose/ From the Noose”

Is a line worthy of blasting.

When I reveal that I jam hardcore to

“In the Closet”,

and sing like a one-man choir when it comes to

“Man in the Mirror” and

“Will You Be There?”

will his fascination with me finally fade?

Will he want to know about the CDs I have accumulated in the past five months:

Michael Buble,

Ariana Grande,

Katy Perry,

One Direction,


and now: Miley.

I’m debating if I want AM

or Lana del Rey?

I want to listen to Cage the Elephant

and know all the words to “Loser”,

I have never been keen on Nirvana,

but I can sing the classics

(at least the lines I make out).

He says I don’t know him well enough to write poetry.

But the real question is:

will I get the chance to,

after he figures out these musical revelations,

the harmonious reflections

that make up just a quarter of my


and dazzling complexity?


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