I hate the flat button nose that I used to tap with my pointer finger while lying on your chest. I’m not a fan of your thick honey-buzzed hair. I can’t stand the tan curve of your arms. I’m sick of your sturdy shortness that always signified stability. I wish I knew nothing about your straight eye-lashes or your fondness for gatorade. I’m so done with your once in a blue moon “miss you” texts. I’m over the times when I come home for winter break and you scoot up next to me at a party whispering your regrets into my ear. I hate your face because I can’t get rid of it.
I hate the fact that you were the first person I really had that primal, animalistic urge to touch.
You were the smirk across the room. The make you feel special and like a piece of shit at the same time guy. The hit the breaks and safety roll out of the car. The smack yourself in the face the next morning kinda dude. The bottom of a handle of whiskey. The tingle in your waist. The writing in permanent marker. The all-in poker move. The last five minutes of your favorite tv series. The addictive bag of ‘Hint-o-Lime Tostitos.’ The sneaky foul in a basketball game.The master computer hacker.
And the worst part is that you weren’t even real. Or at least real to me.
You always had her. The “serious” girlfriend, in whatever way that word could possibly mean to you. And in the dreariest, bottom-of-the-well part of my heart I know I’m just “one of those girls” from high school who only meant something in the ordinary, immediate moment. And I can honestly say, I’m over you. I have moved on. I’m doing well in school, I have loving friends and a new guy in my life. You don’t occupy my thoughts every waking moment. But you’re always there, lurking like a reflection in a puddle.
So yes, when you walk into the bar where I’m sitting with my friends this summer, I am going to hate your face. Not because I think you’re ugly but because I still, grudgingly, and in the most twisted sense, find you beautiful.