The Boy Who Now Calls Me Honey Bunny When you and I first met, I am sure you were wearing a button down shirt. The red one I have come to fancy you hansom in. I am sure the sleeves were not rolled up. Blue jeans made it casual and those black boots seem to be the only shoes you own outside of the tennis shoes you wear to run in. A girlfriend of mine came with, very little was said at the table. We continued the evening to her place where we lounged (as artists usually do) and had a dark beer. This is when it clicked. I thought your conversation was more intriguing to me than my original, more primal intentions. In the elevator, we had made friends and in the parking lot you played hard to get as I returned in a coy fashion. Post Script We give each other kisses all the time now and say the grossest, cliche, and un-poetic saps constantly. Sometimes even over text messages. Post Post Script We don't talk anymore. I wonder if he still drinks.
This is so true, and I don't think I tell you enough, but I love you and miss you, and of course, I appreciate you.
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