He doesn’t like to be wrong- that is the first thing one should know before coming into contact with him. He doesn’t like to listen to other’s opinions either, and he’s as stubborn as a donkey. He doesn’t like to keep his opinion or thoughts to himself- unless it involves some sort of emotional history or reasoning. He isn’t good with his emotions in any sort of fashion. You could push him and try and try to get something out of him, but everything- if there even is anything- is under lock and key. He isn’t easy to understand. He doesn’t like to make it easy for you either- he’ll use large words like “belligerent” and “blasphemy” and he eats up confusion like a kid with cotton candy. He doesn’t have brown eyes. They’re in fact, the furthest thing from brown; blue like a tsunami ridden ocean. He doesn’t have brown hair either. Nope. It’s the color of straw, but sometimes- in the right lighting- it can hit darker shades than you knew existed on that very head of his- almost brown, but I know it’s not. He isn’t short either. Far from it actually, to the point where his body has to bend down to be able to listen to me speak- his facial scruff scratching my face and cheeks, and in that sense, athletic as well, in that “I’m God’s gift” sort of sense. I swear if I could read his mind, he would be thinking those very words at least three times a day, to reassure his insecure self that he has some sort of purpose on this planet in some sort of vaguely important way. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. One of those things being how we used to be. How we once were friends; how there could’ve been more. He doesn’t remember the way we kissed under the stars or the blurry night when the lights were too bright and there were too many people everything crumbled to pieces- the night when nothing made sense other than the fact that sometimes nothing makes sense and not everything is meant to turn out the way you think it will. He doesn’t remember the red dress and the party lights gleaming under the dark night sky, or the missed calls and ignored texts. He doesn’t remember then three months later trying to kiss my best friend. He doesn’t try to forget either- he just chooses not to remember, but I do- it comes together in my brain like connect the dots or spotting a star in the sky above. He is nothing and yet he is everything. He makes my brain hurt like hell. He does not dress nicely- though sometimes his blue jeans pull themselves out of the drawer and onto his 6’3 frame and a blue sweater emerges- matching the color of his eyes. Sometimes he doesn’t look up when I walk by him. He doesn’t walk like he’s shy and he doesn’t walk as if he doesn’t have confidence in himself. He is an oxymoron in his own strange and confusing way. He doesn’t speak clearly sometimes- words spilling out of his pink lips in mumbled clumps- unclear like the past and the way things ended. Sometimes, he doesn’t speak at all. He couldn’t comprehend the way my mind works and I can never begin to understand his. He doesn’t remember our time together or the mind games he played. He isn’t as perfect as he thinks he is, and it sometimes kills me that I once thought that he maybe could be just that. He isn’t aware that sometimes life can be cruel in this exact way. I wasn’t aware of that either.