I used to like when he hugged me outside my car for
four minutes, how he wouldn't let me leave even if it
was cold outside and i was only wearing flip-flips, always
after our lips were red and chafed and my hair was a god-awful
mess on my head,
I used to like it when he listened to odd future, when he complained
about how ugly he was when I knew he was beautiful, how he was
worried that I would care that his skin was rough, that his skin was rough
that his skin was rough, but I loved his textures, his angles, his curves, never
smooth, never flat skin.
I used to like his baby cheeks and defined jawlines, how nothing ever mixed
with him, but he was milk and paint and oil. Baked potatoes with broccoli and
thyme, rosemary cloves.
I can't point out where all these things ended.
When I started to complain when he held me for too long in front of the door because
I told him he couldn't hold me in front of the car anymore. It was too cold.
When did my lips starting staying pink instead of red, when did
my hair start staying perfect, when was the last time I had held his hand
without being afraid of some boring, ridiculous reason, when was the last
time I laid in bed with him when was the last time I thought that he was the
best thing to ever happen to me, where do these thoughts go?
Overthinked, thanked, thunked? Did I wear beyond use, does my love have
an expiration date?
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
I used to like when he hugged me outside my car for
four minutes, how he wouldn't let me leave even if it
was cold outside and i was only wearing flip-flips, always
after our lips were red and chafed and my hair was a god-awful
mess on my head,
I used to like it when he listened to odd future, when he complained
about how ugly he was when I knew he was beautiful, how he was
worried that I would care that his skin was rough, that his skin was rough
that his skin was rough, but I loved his textures, his angles, his curves, never
smooth, never flat skin.
I used to like his baby cheeks and defined jawlines, how nothing ever mixed
with him, but he was milk and paint and oil. Baked potatoes with broccoli and
thyme, rosemary cloves.
I can't point out where all these things ended.
When I started to complain when he held me for too long in front of the door because
I told him he couldn't hold me in front of the car anymore. It was too cold.
When did my lips starting staying pink instead of red, when did
my hair start staying perfect, when was the last time I had held his hand
without being afraid of some boring, ridiculous reason, when was the last
time I laid in bed with him when was the last time I thought that he was the
best thing to ever happen to me, where do these thoughts go?
Overthinked, thanked, thunked? Did I wear beyond use, does my love have
an expiration date?
(c) Brooke Otto 2014
This has been in my drafts for awhile, I like it more now. December 20th.
