i’ve met someone else. he’s nothing like you. he’s all debates on whether tea or coffee is better, jazz music, clammy hands when he’s nervous and baseball caps. he’s nothing like you. he is fresh air seeping into my toxin filled lungs, which are all thanks to you. he’s nothing like you. I think that’s why i like him.
i’ve learned not to expect anything from men too early. they always seem to come up short on making spectacular impressions. we’re still at bashful sideways glances, flushed cheeks and holding hands to fill the silence, and so far it has been enough. i remember when you and i went to the beach and i kissed you ankle-deep in ocean water. you tasted like salt and oranges and smoke, and i thought it was the most heavenly thing i’d ever tasted. maybe i was wrong. because lately i’ve been tasting spring rain and strawberries and something bubbly and it’s not as bittersweet as i thought it would be.
i don’t love him. it’s impossible for me to love him now, because you will still enter my mind more frequently than i’d like and leave my hands shaking. but i like the way his smile mixes my insides so i have to smile back, and the way his fingers brush lightly over mine when he wants to hold my hand. i don’t love him, but he makes me feel nervous and giddy, just the way early love should feel. i don’t love him, but i’m not sure if i still love you.
not so heartbroken
— letters i will never send #1