I used to hate the color yellow.

I used to hate the color yellow.

I really did. I used to hate it.

The first time I started to like the color yellow, it was because of her. We had only been out on a few dates, and I didn’t know that she liked yellow. Really, I didn’t think of it one way or another. It was just another color to me. I liked greens, pinks, maybe purples. Pastels. Black. All my clothes were black. They still are.

She wore a yellow dress that day, with white stockings and cute yellow shoes. Her hair was blonde, almost yellow, and she stared up at me with big blue eyes as I tried not to look downwards at her cleavage. I wore a black shirt and black jeans, black shoes. We went to a party together. I met all of her coworkers, and she got too drunk. I didn’t drink, as much as I wanted to, and took care of her for the rest of the night. I had never felt closer to her.

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In The Fog

Her hands are as small as mine

Grounding me to the Earth

Slowing my racing mind

Ceasing all operations

There’s only peace and clarity

My words spill from my mouth

No filter, no holding back

Not like with the others

Not like when I’m alone

She only smiles in response

And tells her own story

Keeping up, no slowing down

Her lips remind me that I’m real

Real and on the ground

When we separate, I am lost

Floating in the fog,

Trying to make sense of it all

She makes it clear,

if only for a little while.

Blue Eyed Girl

From the moment I wake up, my eyes wander to my darkened phone’s screen, looking for the tiny yellow LED light that lets me know when someone sends me a snapchat message.

I used to not use snapchat at all. And then I met you.

You blue eyed girl. You’re so stinkin’ cute.

My heart lights up whenever you send me a message, with a ‘love’ attached at the very end, as if it were a pet name just for me. You send me a selfie, looking seriously at the camera, clutching your pillow, as you try not to smile while sending it to me. I like to imagine that you tried a few times to get that perfect angle to send me a picture meant just for me.

I find it hard to believe that it’s just for me. Just like I find it hard to believe that I’m the only girl that you call ‘love’. With looks like that, why would you respond to my messages within a moment of me sending them?

You say you’re boring, that you do nothing but work, and I can understand that. I do. But right now, in this moment, as I see the notification that you’re typing, you’re the most interesting woman on the planet to me. I can’t wait for you to hit ‘send’. It takes all of my self-control to not respond a few seconds later.

In between messages, you send me another photo, maybe this time it’s what you’re looking at, or a picture of you in your cute little work uniform, an ugly one that only you can pull off. I shyly open it and stare, feeling my heart rate go up for just a moment, imagining you looking at me that way in person. I shyly open the camera, adjust the lights in my room, maybe even change clothes, searching for the perfect angle so I can send one back.
You ask me how my day was and make me blush each time you say that I’m hilarious or smart when I spout off a random fact about whatever it is we’re talking about. How can you think these things, when my uneven smile and crooked teeth say otherwise? How can you say that I’m so funny, or that I’m so smart when I’m just repeating other people’s words and their jokes to you? I’m not really pretty, smart, or funny.

But the fact that you think so makes my heart swell.

Please let me meet you in person, blue eyed girl. Let me be your girl. I promise it’ll be worth it.

Chai Tea Latte

Chai Tea Latte

Every morning, suddenly, I am awake. My hair falls in my face as I sluggishly rise from my overly pillowed bed, the warmth leaking out from my nest as soon as my feet hit the cool wooden floor. My chest feels heavy and my eyes burn from sleep. Sometimes I have an alarm to turn off, and other days I’ve woken up on my own.

Some days, I brush my teeth and comb out my hair, styling it in the same fashion as any work day. Loose around my shoulders with a plaid or solid colored headband. I apply a brown, matte lipstick and apply just enough eye makeup to hide the bags under my eyes and make it seem as if I had a good night’s rest. My cardigans always matched my headband and my skirts always had biking shorts underneath. My socks were always white, or if I was feeling daring that day, patterned with some kind of cute animal. I have an image to keep, as any accountant would.

Other days I let my body flow freely, wearing just a loose tanktop and a pair of basketball shorts around my apartment. My tattoos are exposed and my hair goes wild and unbrushed for the sake of freedom. I might be drunk by noon, and I might stay sober until the sun goes down. If it’s a special occasion, I might even order in takeout and get high until I feel sideways and don’t know which way is up.

Between my days, there’s one thing that is always consistent. The shop around the corner from my apartment complex always calls to me at the same time each day. Thirty minutes before the coffee shop closes, I stop in, either in my perfect work attire or my messy loungewear, and I see her smile and wave to me, her smile perfect and her eyes crinkling just so.

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