Warning: I’m an idealist. In a still-believed-Santa-existed-when-I-was-twelve kind of way. And a disgusting romantic worthy of a slap every now and then.
I miss the way you’d timidly call me cariño,
Looking away, your voice going down to a mere whisper
as your lips mouthed the tender nickname.
Seems like a different era.
I once asked an ex of mine if he thought I was beautiful. His reply was, “I just tell my friends you’re blonde with green eyes and that kind of does it”. Yeah, fucked up. I know. In his defense, he was only seventeen and I was fourteen. A child.