I don’t like that your name is monosyllabic, that it fits so easily in my mouth.
I don’t like that you always manage to smell good, that the scent of cigarettes never seem to stick with you—no matter how many sticks you smoke in a day.
I don’t like that you’re not just smart, you’re not just intellectual, you’re fucking brilliant; that the words that leave your mouth are angry or cynical or both, and that they hang in the air between us, they fit themselves into our silences, until I can still hear your thoughts in all their angry, cynical beauty.
I don’t like that I think you think the same way I used to; that you’re still so sure of yourself, that you’re still so strong, that you’re still so fucking certain about who you are.
I don’t like that you rarely smile, and that when you do, it lights up your whole fucking face like Christmas lights on a fucking December evening.
I don’t like that you can be bright and happy one moment and quiet and brooding in the next.
I don’t like that you always have something worthwhile to say.
I don’t like that you actually listen to the shit I say, that you bother talking to me in the first place, even if I probably sound pretentious and obnoxious and really really really shitty.
I don’t like your smile, that special one you do whenever you’re exhausted and you try to tell me you’re good, you’re okay, you’re fine, just tired.
I don’t like that I’ve gotten used to seeing you in glasses and I’ve gotten used to seeing you without them, and I think you look good in them either way.
I don’t like that you play, that you’re okay in admitting you watch stuff other people think are for kids, that you don’t actually give a flying fuck about what people think of you because you know you’re cool enough (and you don’t really care even if you’re not).
I don’t like that you’re good to your little sister, that you can treat her like a baby and like an adult at the same time.
I don’t like the time I spent one Saturday talking to you, getting to know your past loves and laughing about old mistakes.
I don’t like that I’ve thought about us happening, that I’ve dreamt about us while I was awake, that I’ve spent those precious precious moments between consciousness and sleep just wondering how it felt to touch you.
I don’t like that I’ve wanted to wear your ID to school, just because I know we’ve gone to the same one.
I don’t like that there was this tiny, minuscule part of me thinking you were my The One, you were the person I was meant to relate to, to connect to, to belong with.
I don’t like that I suddenly believed in destiny again after I’ve met you, that I still believe in it now, even after I’ve accepted that you and me will never happen, that we can co-exist in one room, we can share air and beer bottles, but there will never be nothing more than a you and a me, sold separately.
I don’t like that I’ve known you for about a month or two, but I’ve always wanted to get to know you even more; that you were/are a crush but it’s hard for me to just not want you anymore and I don’t know why.
I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.
But holy fucking shit, I still like you.