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I Notice

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I notice the way you brush hair out of your face, it's too long, you've been meaning to get it cut. It's the color of the evening sun, a glowing red-orange. But you hate the Ginger jokes you always receive, wrapped tightly in colored paper, tied with vibrant ribbons. You don't tell anyone though, you don't tell your dumb-a** friends, the ones who personally deliver the jokes to your doorstep. I notice the way you hate sports, even though you play every one on the face of the planet. You really want to learn to play guitar, but your father doesn't approve. I notice the way you hate your friends, but you can't get rid of them. They stick, and though you try to scrape them off with your nibbled on fingernails, but you just CAN'T. I notice the way you always forget to go around twice on your lock, forcing a beautiful stream of profanities out of you. I notice the way you tug on your right ear while listening to any teacher's long speech. I notice the way you forget to tie your shoes. I notice the way you are garnished with freckles, the color of melted Hershey's, and you hate them. The way you take big steps. The way you hold the door for other people, even with overflowing hands. The way you hum oldies songs while writing. The way you speak, voice loud, but not annoying. The way you clasp your hands together while thinking. I notice the way you chew on your pencil, like a delicious snack. And I notice the way you look at me, smiling, and the way you love how we are 'friends'. I notice you.

Why don't you notice me?




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