That Girl

I terribly miss seeing her. I had the privilege awhile back when we were in school. I was able to see her brunette hair glimmer in the sun. I miss seeing her dimples jump out at me when she smiled. I miss everything about her, and I hate that. It is simple, really. I'm the boy who is just her friend - the kid who will listen to her when she cries over the phone, the kid who will spend hours keeping at a drawn out texting conversation. The boy who tried to show his love to her in the best way he can.

She is blind to the emotions I possess. However, the poems I weave and the stories I create aren't lost on her, surprisingly. She understands the undertone and overtone gestures and hidden meanings spaced among my literature. She is beautiful and intelligent. I only wish she fell for a better man. Wait, how could I even say "man" - the child she is dating right now is younger and practically brain dead! I honestly don't see why such a worthwhile girl went for such a kid. I was about to go on a bashing spree on this boy, but I won't. It was her choice to date him and I respect it as her friend. Still, I can't keep from wishing she was with someone she deserves.

Don't get me wrong - I am not talking about me. I, of all people, am mildly unattractive, short, and scrawny. I can tell a good tale and craft the most amazing compliment that a girl would drool over - and that's all I have to me. Words. Anyone can use words. People say I have a talent with literary pieces; but I think not. It is not a talent. I consider it a reparation paid by God when he breathed life into me. He wrote my destiny with a broken quill and dry ink. My life was - actually, is - full of hardships that were supposed to strengthen me. These did not. I still break down and cry when I realize how hard my life blows. I bruise from a single, playful punch. I am weak in all manners - except for my words. Bah.

These words don't get me anywhere. They only amuse this girl that I love to death for a few minutes. After that, she goes back to adoring hot, hunky dudes wearing nothing but shorts, leaving me in the dust. I tried to win her over by learning how to sing, albeit I am not that great of a singer. I learned the piano and wrote songs of my own. I worked long nights, toiled over each little simile, and provoked my own emotions to portray them in my song. When I finally got around to recording them and playing them live for her, she only bothered to force a thirty second round of applause and cheer. She - and I know for a fact - that she lied to my face when she said it was the "most beautiful amazing thing" she had ever heard. If it was, she would have requested an encore instead of running off to talk for five hours on the phone with her boyfriend.

Ugh. It is getting late. I guess I'll wrap this up by saying thank you for sitting through this and making it to the end. I can't give you anything except my gratitude for listening. Or reading, rather.