Hurricane

He tells me my teeth are too nice for such a dirty habit. I assure him his eyes are too pretty for him to see straight anyway. We dance around the tension with poorly constructed jabs that we never actually mean and half-assed compliments that are too sincere for our own good. We can pretend it’s not what it is. But we can only play charades for so long.

A man like him doesn’t settle, and a girl like me, well, I don’t know just what I want. He seems like a good enough thing, but maybe too good for me. All the trouble I’ve caused over the years won’t likely go unreciprocated, and it wouldn’t be fair to drag him along for a ride with karma. But I must admit that his sharp wit and terrible jokes would make the journey easier to bear.

I stare up at him as he stretches with his arms to the ceiling, filling my entire line of sight. He smiles back down to me with his eyes. Those damn blue eyes. I swear day in and day out that I can still walk away, that he doesn’t mean more to me than any other friend. I can still get myself to lie and say it doesn’t mean a thing to me when he tells me I’m some kind perfect storm, namesake to a hurricane.

My dear, I think again, You are every storm you ever saw. If it weren’t for the ocean living in those eyes of yours, you could see that I’m nothing more than a twist in the wind.

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