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Part of the list
You weren’t part of the list I drew up when I was 13.
It had everything, the colours, lights, bridesmaid, the place and the guy.
Blonde hair, tanned skin, 5’2, and rode an expensive bicycle was perfect.
The perfect guy. Or at least what I thought was perfect at the time.
He existed, the guy I was planning to marry, but when I found out he didn’t like me and fell in love with my bridesmaid. I ditched her and him.
I tried once more when I was 16. Boredom over took me after my party cooled down. I had that list drawn up again. This time I had the designer of the gown, the place, the cost, the date, and the guy.
He was there, at the party I threw. Danced with me.
Kissed my lips. He was just right.
But finally the time had come for us to check out of the hotel. He was perfect but not for me.
Heartbreak. I had never experienced before so I didn’t know what I as doing, when I said, “I don’t love you anymore.” Screw my wedding.
You weren’t a part of my list until the summer of ’08. My 20th birthday.
The Parisian summer sun was going down. I sat on the steps on the art museum, clueless as to what my quiz was going to be on tomorrow.
Needless to say, you helped me. A guy that had been in my Art class since freshman year. Had I known you then, no? But I do now.
Once I passed the quiz, I tried to piece together that messed up list.
I had the date, the colours, bridesmaid, place, gown, and the most important guy.
The guy I did love. You didn’t lust after my bridesmaid; you had a sweet mo-ped not a bicycle. And you weren’t part of the list I made 7 years ago, I know why too.
You are perfect. If perfect meant flawed in every way.