Eyes that blue just aren’t natural.
They’re so honest.
Of course in seventh grade, I thought that
Blonde Hair + Blue Eyes = “total hottie.”
I thought that being romantic meant speaking in foreign languages.
Sweet boys were the ones with roses.
But then I went on an antisocial rampage;
Don’t give me those beach boys.
Get away, Abercrombie.
Let’s see that bass player, dark hair glistening in the shadows.
Show me the boy that writes poetry in the margins of a newspaper.
Real romance is the one that doesn’t need words; looks tell all.
I wanted the one that no one noticed but wished they had.
But now . . .
Now, I don’t know what I want.
I can’t define it.
If I can’t describe what I’m looking for, how can I find it?
Find me.
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