I love those brown eyes, the irises outlines in black. I love that beautiful white smile, those full lips. I love your brown nipples and flat abdomen. I love your hip bones. I love your [unmentionables]. I even love your feet... and I hate feet.
I love your laugh. I love your voice. I love your intelligence. I even love your self-confidence, bordering on arrogance. I love your fashion sense. I love you playing guitar. I love your music taste. I love your movie taste. I love your hypocrisy.
I love your tattoos and body modifications (yes, even that side-pierced lip that I keep saying I don't like... I really just want to kiss you and feel the hoop against my lip; don't let me lie.) I love your hands, which are always so clean (unless you've been working on a car.)
I love your broad scope of knowledge.
I love that you pop into my life when I think you've totally forgotten about me.
I hate that you make me believe you've totally forgotten about me.
I hate that I can convince myself you never meant anything to me.
I hate that your face pops into my mind at random times, now.
[Out of the blue]
I hate that you feel the need to lie to me about your relationships.
I hate that you lie to me about your motives.
I hate that you make me feel like I'm special,
then turn around and ignore me for a week or two at a time.
But I love the memories:
-Of falling asleep on your bed
-Of staying awake all night at your house
-Of playing video games with you, when I hate video games
-Of you teaching me to play 3 Libras on an acoustic guitar
-Of random times driving around, destination nowhere
-Of football games, where we were both in the band...
-And the late night Waffle House runs once high school was over
-Of the piercing parlor, together
-Of drunken nights
-Of high nights
-Of anything related to you, sans lies
So dear heart, do you think I love you? Do you think you could possibly ever come to that realization? Because I don't want to admit it. I don't ever want to say the words aloud in a romantic fashion. I never want to open myself fully to you, to even admit to myself that I might be in love with you [and have been for two years]. I won't admit that to myself. Because you'll never see it, and it'll never come to any fruitful end.
My dear heart, you have lied time and again to me. The weight is the issue. The smoking isn't it. Stop pretending to not be shallow, and maybe this wouldn't have happened. If you hadn't of told me it wasn't the weight, that maybe I could have a chance!, then maybe I wouldn't have let this twinge of feeling fester and fester and fester into...[whatever this feeling is].
But you did. And I blame you.
And I know there's nothing that can be done to fix any of it.
So maybe you won't call again for another six months. Maybe I won't be at this number anymore. Maybe you'll never see me again, because I'll pick up and leave this small town. But maybe you'll call me tomorrow, and your face will pop into my mind while I'm driving again. And maybe it won't go away; maybe I won't even be able to forget you if you were to stay away for 60 years.
We'll just have to see.
[And what do you put here when you don't want to admit something so...]