He’s Your Favorite Type Of Man

It’s a beautiful Wednesday evening. The type of evening that is meant to stop you in your tracks, demanding to be recognized. You wipe the last delicate snowflake off your nose before you step into the coffee shop where he’s waiting. He speaks in riddles, dresses in mystery.

He’s every cool, underrated song on radio stations only few listen to. You can find him in the corner of a dive bar drinking his regrets down on ice. Or mindlessly wandering the city streets, hands in deep pockets, hair tucked behind his ears. He gets dragged out to parties he doesn’t want to attend. He’s cynical but, you know it’s all an act. He’s a diamond in the rough, unaware that he deserves the love he hasn’t grown up receiving.

He’s every complicated character in those indie movies you love. He’s the worn out sweater that’s always been most comfortable, no matter the condition. The sleeves don’t give him away though, he hides his emotions in his eyes. Swirling shades of blue displaying his thoughts that are not spoken. Sometimes a sly smirk slips without his consent. God forbid you find out he thinks you’re funny. You always notice the tiniest details.

He’s your favorite book. A book you’ve read countless times, he never bores you. Somehow each time you read him, you catch another detail you overlooked before. He’s an intellectual. You know you’ve just barely scratched the surface with him. He’s interesting, he’s not a carbon copy. He’s an original. He’s fearfully and wonderfully made.

“You are far too young to have such deeply set frown lines” she says. He laughs. “No one’s ever mentioned that to me.” She smiles softly, puts her mittens on and before turning to walk away replies, ” I guess they weren’t paying attention.”