Hey heartbreakers,

In addition to my weeks of rent-free poem week, I did a standalone post a little while back, called “Like I Would an Old Friend” because I had been inspired to write but was out of tune with the week. This post is similar — rent-free poem week is over — hence Rogue #2.

Disclaimer: if you clicked on this post thinking it was some kind of play on “Rogue One,” I hate to disappoint but this has nothing to do with Star Wars… kind of.

For all my past rent free poem weeks, go here, and for my rogue posts, go here.

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Bookmark near the end

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end. — Julia Nicole Camp

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I love this poem. It was posted in the NYT “Tiny Love Stories” in 2020, and I’ve seen it pretty consistently every few months since then (a sign from the universe??) and felt compelled to write about it.

This poem is both heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time — a short, quiet reflection on love, distance, and the traces that people leave behind. Wanting to connect with the man she loved, she buys every biography she can find about John Quincy Adams (JQA), immersing herself in his passion. She made a significant dent in them too, but before she can finish, he decides their relationship won’t work because of “different interests,” basically admitting that he maybe did not make the same effort she did in immersing himself in her likes.

It’s a stunning contradiction: while he claims they are too different, she’s literally surrounded herself with the very things he loves.

Look I’m no expert on love; I know very little about it actually. But I think people often imagine love as this enormous, sweeping emotion, when it rather lives in the small gestures and the details. The fact that there are some people in my life who read and like every blog post (love you Sinclaire!), that there are people who go to a store and see something that reminds them of me so they get it for me (thank you Divya!), the fact that whenever Taylor Swift releases something, I’m the first person on a lot of people’s minds… these are the things that add up.

This kind of love doesn’t even demand recognition. There’s no guarantee that the boyfriend of the poet even knew she bought the books. But she did it anyway; because sometimes love means changing your world to make space for someone else’s.

It’s about entering someone else’s world; it’s about saying, “I want to know the things you care about, because I care about you.” It’s immersing myself in things that I would not have otherwise done had it not been for the important people in my life: the fact that I went from a not-Football fan to now tracking every Ravens’ game to see if they won; the fact that when I’m in public and I see some cute Star Wars Print or Merch and have to get it (See, there is a star wars reference in this); the fact that there are books I will read only because my friends told me to read them (Yes, Artur, I will eventually finish Will of the Many).

“What does love mean to you?”

An understated but sharp turning point in the poem; He still loves her but implies that love isn’t enough because their interests don’t align. And when she asks him, “What does love mean to you?” his answer is “That’s an impossible question.” To him, it’s unclear and perhaps even conditional. But to her, love is concrete; it’s a verb not a noun, and it’s effort. It’s the stack of biographies with a bookmark near the end.

I wonder now, if she ever finished reading the books, because what remains after the love ends (if it ever really does end)? Maybe she couldn’t finish them, or maybe she got so into JQA independently that she did finish the books. Maybe this awoke a deep passion for 19th century American politics.

We’ve all loved people who shaped us in ways we didn’t expect. We’ve picked up hobbies, books, music, phrases, even fashion sense, simply because they came attached to someone we loved. And even when that person is gone, those things remain.

I, however, find love to be quite simple.

Maybe it is. Maybe it’s as simple as trying, as showing up, as putting in the effort.

Today my friend asked me “is that chapter closed?” and I replied that I don’t think a chapter is ever really closed, because if the effort is there, you can always open up the book again. The books on her nightstand are symbols of effort, connection, and vulnerability, and I hope the poet has found a love that immerses themselves in her passions too.

Until next time!

xo

Sandhya

If you would like to celebrate my 30th year around the sun with me, then please click the follow or subscribe button! Feel free to connect with me through this platform, twitter, my coffee and checkins Instagram, my podcast on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Stitcher, or Amazon Music, or email me at coffeeandcheckins@gmail.com! If you have any suggestions for topics or anything you’d like me to write/speak about, please let me know🙂❤