An Excerpt from a Book I'll Never Write: A Brief Summary of the Scars Left by Past and Present Lovers

I promised myself I wouldn't fall in love again after falling too fast, too much, too deep, too desperately for him. But scabs turn to scars and those are easy to hide under the right color foundation.



He tells you nerdy jokes and writes you poems on the napkins at your local Starbucks while saying, "This coffee isn't half as good as you are," with a sly grin. He invites you over to his grandma's house to have spaghetti and play with the new puppy. The problem is that he gets too suffocated by your love and runs away. You don't run after him. You don't run at all. You just write him sappy love letters in hopes to get him back. It doesn't work. 



He's only yours on Saturday nights when your friends are too broke and too unmotivated to go out. He's courteous enough to buy your favorite brand of beer but not enough to respond to your texts. You fell for the way he picks you up and spins you around in his kitchen, shamelessly dancing to the same songs as last Saturday;  the way he kisses your cheek and calls you beautiful; the way he strums his ukulele and sings Ed Sheeran songs to you while you straining your brain trying to figure out his intentions. You know he doesn't mean anything he says between the sheets, but it's okay. You tell yourself you're only attached to the way his strong arms make you feel a false sense of security for a couple hours. 



You wish he talked about you the way he talks about her. He doesn't take long to answer, ever, regardless of the desert dry exchange of "how are you" and what's up"s you both settle for as a pathetic excuse for a conversation. You like the chase but not the one chasing you. You stay just in his reach, close enough to hear his raspy voice tell you what you want... what you need to hear on lonely Tuesday nights. You know that none of your friends like him. He's a bad idea with a charming voice. He's a simple book but you're convinced there's a deeper meaning and for some stupid reason, you're entitled to find that meaning. 



He talks too loud when he's drunk. He rants about philosophy and the way humans are lacking humanity. He's he type of guy that has everything going for him, somehow, someway, fate decided to give him a break. He takes care of you and calls you his girl, but you know you aren't, no matter how much you want to be his. He's never listening but always has something to say. You want him to crawl into your head and understand how he makes you feel when he's making you dizzy while giving you lectures under the stars. He silently nudges you to light his cigarette. You get jealous of the way he holds his cig with more emotion than he'll ever hold you. 



You're still waiting for that song he said he'd write for you. You're convinced he's not filled of empty promises like the rest, but there hasn't been reciprocation in the last few days and you question what you did or didn't do. His ego and stubbornness are almost as big as his heart and you know he's too much of a child to fall for the way he makes you feel endless, but there's something of his of which you're slowly becoming addicted. It's his carefree mentality that pulses through his veins, flying like a bird towards his own happiness, being bound by nothing. It's the way he bobs his head when he plays, the shape of his hands when he gently grabs your face as he gets closer and closer to kiss you. He doesn't realize that you're secretly dedicating the songs you play in the car while you're driving him home. You promised him you wouldn't catch feelings but he doesn't know that it's impossible not to when he kisses like sunshine and feels like the rain. He doesn't understand that the feelings he sends down your spine are what keeps you coming back for more. 


He never says the right things, but you can read him through his honey colored eyes. He doesn't believe in time, doesn't own a watch, and is constantly late, but when he's there, he's fucking there. He fills the room with his overpowering essence and embraces you with his rough, paint-colored hands. He talks about his plans of traveling the world and dying young while you get lost in the sound of his voice. You wonder how someone so different from you could ever fill you up so much. He lives in the uncertainty of life, in the midst of the dusk and paleness of the moon, in between the world of fiction and the realm of reality. You're not sure if he's completely real for it cannot be possible for someone to understand the hieroglyphic coded thoughts drowning your head, but somehow he does. Somehow he makes you forget about the horrors that live in the corners of the darkness.  He likes to swim in the waves of your hair and is convinced he loves you more than you love him. And he's wrong. He's so mistakenly wrong because only he can make you embrace the scars of past lovers and heal them with the hope of a better tomorrow, the hope of love and all that is beautiful and simple in life.