Can't Believe I'm Writing Poetry About Pickleball
(AKA Sestinas are HARD)
You showed me how to hold the paddle right,
a patient grin tucked just behind your serve.
The sun was sharp, but not as sharp as you,
your voice a rhythm I began to crave.
You taught me how the ball could kiss the line—
not just a game, but something more like love.
I never meant to fall in love
while learning how to angle wrist and paddle right.
But there you were, teasing the kitchen line,
laughing each time I missed your wicked serve.
What started as a hobby grew to crave,
each rally drawing me closer into you.
The bounce, the banter – always back to you.
I should have known this wasn’t just a love
of dink and drop, but something I would crave,
like muscle memory training paddle right
to meet the shot, to mirror every serve,
a language formed in sweat and baseline line.
At night I dream in points and boundary line,
but always it’s the shape and sound of you
that lingers louder than your perfect serve.
It isn’t just the game I’ve come to love,
it’s how you guide my grip, my paddle, right
into your world, where every loss I crave.
I crave the moment right before the crave,
that hush of breath behind the service line,
your glance before you send the paddle right
at me, a dare disguised as spin. It's you
who’s turned this casual match into love -
who’s blurred the net and deepened every serve.
I live now for the thrill of your next serve.
It isn’t pickleball I truly crave,
but this: your shoulder brush, your look of love
that lingers just beyond the center line.
And when we play, I almost tell you – You.
But I just grip and ready paddle right.
Your serve, your laugh, your love—all draw the line
that separates a game from craving you.
You paddle past, and everything feels right.