Early Yet

He writes the way I do, aware of all the ironies and conflicts present in every sentiment, questioning and mocking himself by turns. Everything means something more than itself, a concept both comforting and maddening.

He writes beautifully, and I'm not saying that merely because he was writing about me. I can pretend it's about some other girl, and find the imagery, the lyricism, just as pleasing.

That said, I find it odd that it is not he who is stuck in my head. Logic would indicate that I should be fascinated with the dancer, the musician, the writer, the gentleman; that I should daydream about his strong will and his intelligence, and the slow burn in my stomach as he whirled me tightly into him on the dance floor, lips and breath tangling for a kiss that we teasingly denied ourselves. Logic would have me fall for him, and justifies that I have not by noting that it's early yet.

That other frustrates me and makes me wary. He is not yet grown, with a youth's thirst for violent glory and a boy's misunderstanding of women. He is scarcely to be found, and when he is around, about all I can do is melt sleepily into his embrace. He's rude, stuffed full of bluster and bullshit.

And which one haven't I stopped writing about since we first met? (Yeah, that would be the one that I currently don't like so much.)

I have to go with logic on this one. It's early yet.