I fell in love with a boy, once.
A boy with brown eyes.
They didn't sparkle.
And they didn't gleam.
They were brown.
Simple, ordinary brown.
And this boy was an ordinary boy.
He didn't speak beautiful words.
He didn't sweep me off my feet,
or sing me love songs.
His kiss didn't send fireworks through my veins.
Nor did his touch make me shake.
He was simply ordinary.
I was never undeniably addicted to him.
Never felt my heart in his hands,
or felt his soul in my chest.
He was what he was.
I was what I was to him.
We were what we were,
at that moment,
when neither one of us wanted to mean something to someone else,
when neither one of us wanted to feel.
We, as we were, were ordinary.
They will never write love stories about us.
And he will quickly forget about me once I am gone.
Because to him, I was ordinary too.
He never dreamt of me.
I was never what he felt he's been missing all this time.
I was just a girl with blue eyes.
Blue eyes that didn't sparkle.
Eyes that he never thought to gleam.
Ordinary blue eyes.
But now and again,
part of me thinks that maybe he fell in love with me too.
Some moments I think that maybe,
well maybe the fact that we didn't say much was okay,
maybe it was okay that we were ordinary.
I always thought I wanted this extraordinary love affair,
filled with this insane, violent, addictive passion.
Where we hated each other,
yet we couldn't survive with the other,
where we couldn't breathe without the other's breath.
I thought I needed someone who would take responsibility
for whether my heart was capable of beating or not.
But then I fell in love with a boy,
a boy with ordinary brown eyes,
who spoke ordinary, quiet words.
A boy who touched me in an ordinary way,
who took ordinary breaths, at even intervals.
I fell in love with a stupid, ordinary boy.