he is soft, and i am not.
quiet, too. blond hair and green eyes and tucking his hands into his pockets, as if he is trying to take up less space than he can. as if he does not know where he is supposed to exist, in between tangible and intangible realms. i am not sure how human he is - he looks like a half-angel. i am not sure if his feet touch the ground.
he is golden and white. god, i love to scream fuck white boys with your friends - and then i see him and the knot in my throat drops. never thought i'd fall for one, i laugh. secretly i wonder if he knows that he is breaking down so much of what i thought i knew about myself. so much of what i thought i was.
he looks like a fairytale prince, my friends remark. never been the type of guy that i'd enjoyed, but now i am always thinking of touching him. he looks too fragile to be real. porcelain. like the moment i touch him he'll break into a thousand pieces and leave me wondering why i, a sinner, would like him, an angel. i am so used to loving hellfire and curves that i do not know what to do about his halo and sharp lines.
it'll never work out, of course. i am far too used to the shape, the touch, the rhythm of girls to ever have anything more than a hookup or a date with a boy. but sometimes boys like him make me wonder what foreign lips taste like. probably not like the sunlight and peaches of girls. maybe like midnight or ash.
he'll be fun to kiss. but i know he'll never make my chest bloom like girls can - and i think i'm okay with that.