He would write his perfect poems.
Then, read it with his golden voice.
I hated his perfection
because I knew he was what I wanted to be.
He would smile and nod
whenever I shared my flawed poems.
He could do everything I had ever even thought about wanting to do effortlessly,
and I could not accept that.
I hated how I knew I would never amount to him.
But why do I want to kiss him?