11.30/12.1

You are inquisitive and sweet. You have blonde hair that's growing into a long stalk at the back of your neck, and ask for advice on what color to dye it. "Not black," I say. "I think dark red would look better." You tell me my hands are dainty and cute, that I have very soft skin. You are polite, chivalrous, even. You thought we got lost on the highway, but the truth is I deliberately ignored my exit because I wasn't ready to give you up, just yet. So we talk until 6AM, when you have to leave to pick up your friend at a party. "I wish I could stay and cuddle," you tell me. I can't manage the nerve to kiss you, even with your hands on my waist, your lips on the back of my neck. You're skinny and scene and young and everything I've never had in my lap before.

You're very far away now. But I feel like our souls might have bits that are the same color, and I wanna lay in bed with you all day, and look in those pretty eyes.