Less of You

He's like a less cute version of you, but he'll have to do, I guess.

I like his straight teeth. I do, honestly. They're pretty. He never had a crooked smile, unlike you. His teeth don't get in the way when we're kissing. They don't hurt so much when he playfully bites at me either.

His hair is always in place. Always washed. It's nice. Softer than yours. Yours wasn't as smooth or rich as his. He's brunette. His hair's almost black – naturally, of course. He doesn't use hair dye like you. He showers everyday so he doesn't have greasy hair or look a mess. He always looks well put together.

He shops at expensive places. Really, really expensive places. Hollister, mostly. He loves Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch. He wears a lot of plaid. It's cute. He's so farm boy, it's perfect. His jeans never have rips or tears for my feet to get stuck in when we're cuddling. He doesn't have as many muscles as you. I like it better that way. I never liked muscles. It hurt when you hugged me.

A comfortable hurt. A warm, loving, snug hurt that never wanted to let go but that doesn't matter. I like his hugs better.

He's like a less interesting version of you, but I don't care. Less drama, less to worry about.

I like the way he doesn't have scars up and down his arms. Or legs. Or hips. He's clean, like the China plates our dinner's served on when he takes me out to that fancy restaurant downtown. He can roll up his sleeves and not be ashamed to look at himself. He never wears jackets with short sleeve shirts. He doesn't care. He has nothing but pretty, pure, solid skin to look at. No ugly scars.

He never had a sad day in his life, I don't think. He's always happy. His parents are perfect. I like them better than I like my own. Plus, he doesn't have an annoying little brother. Not one who always wants to get with me like yours did. He's an only child, like me. We have so much in common, I'd like to think.

He listens to music on the radio. His favorite... artist is Lil Wayne. He says it's poetic genius. I only nod and agree. He talks bad about Blink-182 sometimes. Are they still your favorite band? We got into a fight about music once and maybe, just maybe, when we fight is the only time he's ever upset. When we fought, you never got upset. We both liked the chase, but it isn't like that with him. Wherever I go, I know he'll follow.

Where's the fun in that? But I do like the consistency. At least I know he'll be there when I wake up, unlike you on some mornings.

He's like a less wrecked version of you, but that means no messes. No problems.

When I lit a cigarette once, he yelled at me. Told me it was killing me. I was already dying. He'd never share a fag with me on the porch on early winter mornings, watching the snow fall. Never. He's just looking out for me, though. He cares so much, he doesn't want me to stop breathing or get lung cancer. That's love – wanting to change someone for the better, right?

He doesn't drink. On New Year's Eve, he insisted we have the soda champagne instead of the real stuff our parents were drinking. They said we could have some and I wanted to, I really did, but he said my liver is as beautiful as I am. I shouldn't ruin it. I felt like a baby sitting alone with him, like we were at the kiddie table. We drank every time I snuck you in, then we'd cuddle and watch TV, maybe fool around. Go farther than two kids like us should have ever went but that didn't stop us.

He won't let me get myself in trouble. I cried the night my dog died. I always slept with my dog, you know that. I would sometimes kick you out of bed just so Mollie and I could snuggle. You hated that dog, you said, but I know you didn't. I would wake up sometimes and catch you playing with her. You never knew I was awake but that's okay. He said he loved her, but he never paid her any attention. Not like you. I wanted to sneak him in through my window that night but he said, ”No. Your parents will find out and they'll ground you like what happened with him. I'll see you tomorrow.” I cried myself to sleep alone.

He's like a less perfect version of you, and I hate it but I'm willing to settle.

Those mornings after you spent the night, you'd snore into my ear and wake me up. I hate snoring and he doesn't snore. It was cute when you grunted and gurgled, though. I loved it. When you woke up, we'd go out on the deck and smoke, no matter how cold it was. It was tradition. It was just another bad habit I still can't kick. When he's not around, I'll lean against the railing and stare out into the backyard taking long drags off my cigarette, remembering all those conversations we had on the very wood I was standing on.

I miss running my fingers through your two day old hair. We'd take showers together when you needed to get clean – when your smell bothered you more than anyone else. I miss tugging at your long, dirty blonde hair when the dye's all faded and having you moan into the crook of my neck and shoulder. You knew how small I was and how submissive I was. Those little things I could do to you to make your legs give out made me feel as if I was the most powerful thing ever. You gave me those opportunities just to see my satisfied smile and trust me, I was so satisfied.

My floor's empty every Saturday night. Mom still works, leaves me alone six PM to eleven AM the next morning and he refuses to come over when she isn't home. He doesn't lay on the floor with me like you did and listen to that music we used to. He hates our band, he hates our song but he doesn't know it's our anything... but I guess it isn't anymore. Nothing is ours now. I'm not yours and you aren't mine.

He's not like you at all, and it breaks my heart but I'm willing to lie.