I let the wind toss my short, reddish hair all over the place and ruin my part. I’m chilled with my long legs covered by nothing than a pair of nylons that are a size too big for me, and my black and green-grey skirt, which is barely long enough to be modest while the air is still, does nothing to retain any warmth. But I couldn’t care. I might look like a mess, like nothing special with my black, worn over coat clutched closed and dirty, pink back pack full of school books slung over one shoulder, but I know you wouldn’t have me any other way.
At least, that’s what you said. You told me that you liked me because I wasn’t like most other girls, that I was more human. You said it was my ability and willingness to stand out and be my own person. Well, my own person would rather catch the bus to see a sweet guy that happens to like me a little in return than put in a pair of earrings and trace her eyes with eyeliner to look like she’d put herself together that morning. So now as I stand, lonely and exhausted on the train platform waiting to go home in the sputtering rain and gusty wind, I wish you were here. Because I know if you were to walk up to me right now you would hug me tight and tell me that I’m beautiful.
You do that a lot. You call me sexy, tell me I’m beautiful, say I’m cute. You flatter me, and you pay for my food quite frequently. But I won’t let you buy me curlers for my hair again. I can’t stop you if you buy me stars, but you really spend too much money on me. Yes, I love it, but I don’t want you to give me more than I can give back. You really need to stop paying for my sandwiches. At least most of the time I can pay for my own ice cream. It’s not even a date. Don’t get me wrong, I love the way you always make me feel like a princess, but I’m pretty sure that I do a fairly terrible job of making you feel like a prince. Or a rock star. Or whatever. But I’m pretty sure I do a terrible job of making you see and know how much I appreciate you.
I’d write you a letter telling you as many of the things I love you for if I could, but it could never begin to say what I want you to know. When we’re together, tickling you, running my hands through your hair, caressing your stubble… They’re just little things, but I hope these little things say what my feeble words can’t. What these pathetic syllables will never be able to convey. Can you understand it, simply comprehend my emotions and draw them into yourself like osmosis?
