You don’t really know someone until they get the guts to stop dancing around. Hold onto knowing their favorite color but that won’t paint a clearer picture.
I would rather read a bedtime story than watch a slow slur swiftly shut their eyes.
I wish I could get over the fact that I become less attracted to people once I learn that they have no goals/ambitions/dreams and seem far less intelligent than myself.
I would’ve never believed that I’d forget you:
the sound of your laugh, the size of your hands,
that one day I’d have to rub my forehead
like a genie’s lamp to pull out your last name.
I would have slit my tender paten to pulp
to shake bloody and swear that one day
we would share a last name, or at least
a flamboyantly oversized prom picture.
But now, I could form a terrible band
with all the boys I thought would pant
their presence forever on my heart, but
instead evaporated almost completely,
leaving only the tease of our nicknames,
the soft ghost of their favorite tee-shirt,
and the dusty ordinary ellipse of what
could have been.
eeeek. tanks. pretty isn’t everything. it’s what you do with it.