Can't Write About You

May 8, 2011
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Every time I try to write about you I end up backspacing until I’m looking at a blank page again. There’s something about you that I can’t capture. None of my in-depth adjectives can describe you. You’re so frustratingly different. You like black and white movies and you wore Raybans before they were popular. You draw with charcoal and listen to Jack Johnson. You’re laugh is contagious, but you don’t just share it with anyone. You want to turn this little Texas town upside down. Oh, and you completely own my heart.

I remember the night you wrote me a song. I didn’t even know you played guitar. It was another one of your secrets, you told me. You always had a lot of secrets. You sang about my aquamarine colored eyes and described my freckles in a way that made them actually seem attractive. Then you kissed my nose and melted my heart.

I remember our first kiss. It was in the rain, of course, you little romantic. We were taking a walk by the lake, when all of a sudden, the bipolar state of Texas decided it was time for us to have a shower. I started to run toward the car when you grabbed my arm and pulled me close to you. You stared into my eyes until I fell under your trance again. Then you kissed me. Most amazing kiss I’ve ever experienced. Your lips were so tender against mine and I never wanted it to end.

I remember when you asked me to prom. You didn’t really want to go because the media gives girls a false hope of perfection, making them think prom is the high point of their life, or at least that’s what you told me, but you knew it was important to me, so you asked. While all the football jocks were clumsily asking their girlfriends, you drew me a picture. On my locker. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I remember the first time I tried to bake you something. I set a fire in my oven and we just ended up eating all of the cookie dough. You said I was cute when I just ate the cookie dough straight off the mixer, like I was licking a lollipop. I was glad you were into that, because I have a weak spot for cookie dough, oh and for you.

I have hundreds of more memories to fill up these pages, but none of them matter anymore. What proof do I have that any of this even happened besides the guitar pick you left at my house? Oh, and a broken heart?

Want to know my most distinct memory? The day you left. You said you had to get out of this little Texas town. You said you couldn’t handle your life revolving around football and small town gossip anymore. Like your life ever revolved around any of that. What you really meant was that you couldn’t stand your life revolving around me anymore. So you packed up your little ‘64 Ford Galaxie and headed toward LA. Ready to tell the next girl all your old, worn secrets.

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a7xangel said...
May 12, 2011 at 9:16 am
This piece reminded me a little too much of a situation I'm in. Good work. It made me cry XD
callieeebeth This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
May 27, 2011 at 3:07 pm
thank you soo much! :)
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