I feel most beautiful when my hair is haphazardly thrown into a French barrette, my pajamas are loose, and my scented lotion on.

I couldn't tell how much of my usual actions tonight of quickly twisting my hair, or picking which scent to wear, were influenced by my love for me or you.

I gently pulled the frontmost curls from the barrette and clasped on a delicate necklace in my vanity mirror. I selected the small, expensive bottle from my collection to melt into my hands, wrists, and clavicles.

I would never leave the house without this evening routine, and even though we're only crossing the street, I indulge in my reflection. It's the most I've loved myself all week.

I don't look to see if the lashes are perfectly parted, if the hair is tamed, if anything. I just take in my sights and scents,

and I secretly hope you do too.

when i talk about you i find myself saying,

“we always just miss each other, always the wrong time.”

but the truth we both know and never tell is we’ve been playing bumper cars.
the feelings are there even though we fight them, both waiting for the other to make the first move.
when you inevitably step up to take the lead, i follow suit.
we crash into each other, making the jokes and being just a little too close to keep calling ourselves friends.

“this is always how we are, we’ve always been like this.”

but then just as soon as it starts it’s all too intense, and we fall back to our corners waiting for the next moment.
you look at me the way you do and tease me with that smile.
i know our cars will bump and crash even when i steer away, and each time i turn around you’re there.

“i hope we’re happy in another universe, i think they deserve to be.”

but in this one we’ll keep just missing each other, always playing bumper cars.