I still think of you.

And how bright your hair was when you were recall­ing the ter­ri­ble date you had last night. The guy would­n’t stop putting him­self down. “Someone’s inse­cure”, I said. You agreed. I only knew because I used to do the same thing (but I did­n’t tell you that).

You would­n’t stop bit­ing your low­er lip — how I want­ed to stop that fid­get with a kiss — and flip­ping that gold­en wave back over your head with clum­sy lit­tle fin­gers.

As wrong as we were for each oth­er, I still want­ed to give it a try. To see what it would be like to sing with you in your car, even if you thought lis­ten­ing to rock gave you an edge cause you were such a girly-girl. To find out if you could ever love me as much as you love your­self.

I nev­er asked you out cause I was too proud to make the first move. In this phase where I was tired of being the one to make the effort. Probably for the best. You’d nev­er believe that I avoid you as much as you me. Did you ever tell him why you don’t come around any­more?

I still think of you. Then again, I think about pret­ty much every­one who’s been in my life from time to time, in some capac­i­ty.

You’re the only one I hate think­ing of.

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