The Boy.

Thinking about the boy who…

T. Drove me home on the fourth of July, held my hand, looked at the stars and played his guitar for me and sand and gave me a hug instead of going any further. Who doesn’t drink and called me on the phone.

C. Texted me from the El Camino and told me that he was thinking of me whenever that song came on. And always apologizes that he’s not better at texting, and who my roommate always asks about even though we met once.

G. Sent me letters when I was on a different continent, wondering what I was doing so far away and why he was so curious about it, about me. Who encroached a bit on my personal space during a strange time, and who I haven’t talked to since.

S. Would sit me down and tell me no and tell me why. Who gave me a few second chances. Who was vulnerable and hurt and maybe in love but he would never say it. Who won’t look at me anymore. Whose number I do not have and whose instagram I have blocked.

J. Who plays guitar better than he uses his hands on a female body. Who said I miss you these days and had dirt baked onto his skin from fire. Who really only wanted one thing. Who wouldn’t work out long term because fundamentally his lines are blurred and I don’t like that. Whose mom left.

P. Who showed me a window into a transient, fluid, dreamy life. Who picked mushrooms and skinny dipped with me. Who slept, ate, partied, worked hard. Who hurt me so bad and yet I’ll always look around corners for him. Who showed me what I did to someone else.

Z. Who connected with me, waited three months, felt so good in the beginning when he showed care. Who didn’t ever try to make me feel satisfied, who planted seeds of making myself smaller to fit in a box, in a man’s perception. Who I had fun with. And I wonder if I’ll ever feel that spark with someone without it being toxic or unhealthy.

I love to think about these boys and reminisce and hurt my own feelings. They have all taught me things. And they are all boys, not men, more or less. Ah. Food for thought.