Stretchmarks of Worry, Side Fat of Comfort

Those bothersome sons of guns are spreading rumours from the locker room again.

Stretchmarks of Worry, Side Fat of Comfort

Smooth my tongue is, Casanova I am not.

I was that evening, broken raw from vague rejection only that morning. Hear tell she did about my stretchmarks, these scars of growth of pride.

Is it not normal? Is the problem with me?

Seemingly happy with a sweet red smile, you were there too.

In all areas lacking there was none. Why was someone so perfect alone?

The music yawned, long since my friends a l r e a d y ditched me.

No one to take my hand, you were looking on.

“Good evening good morrow my lady. I'm feeling quite sad with the sorrows lately. Would a dame, would a dame quite lovely as you amuse an old fool, with a dance and a prance?”

Thankful as I was broken I held out my unsteady hands.

You agreed without a shadow of distaste.

“A senior I may be, but my fantasticless experience with the my-dears makes me expertless here.” I said as my hands couldn’t find their place.

You smiled with my hands in yours and guided them to where they went.

You didn’t say a word, and you didn’t need to.

Was it endearment?

A look of the eyes says more than words ever could.

Gently on her waist my hands went while helplessly my bony shoulders held hers.

Side to side, difficulty was greatly low.

Others I’d danced with for those short dreadful moments averted their eyes and squirmed, but different she'd shown she was.

Her eyes looking into mine with such purpose, and in that moment I felt so small.

A professional really is different.

Darted mine eyes between hers and beyond her. A professional I am not.

In the way of romantics it was null, though some meaning it gained.

Her many layers my hands discovered though we stood exactly where we were, exactly as we were.

Warm dress.

Smooth skin.

Well built abs topped by the most endearing s o f t flesh on the sides.

A coursing river of thought; She was normal. I am normal.

She has dealt with rejection and anxiety maybe.

She plausibly deals with stretchmarks exactly as mine.

She’s just another person out of billions. We all are. She who I thought was perfect was not.

Somehow a comfort.

It was a casual fleeting encounter, but for the first time in a long time, someone saw me. Not just for stretchmarks.

For a perfect last dance of high school, there was none better.

Should I pinch her side? Of course I shouldn't.

The outcome is obvious.

Teeth and Trust, equally broken.

But it's calling out to me like an oddly satisfying youtube video.

Today is not the day, but

Maybe one day, I will have someone who's side I can pinch to my heart's desire.

Maybe someday, this beautiful sight of the mind will come true.

Maybe my mom was right. Maybe the problem wasn't with me or my stretchmarks.

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Snookeronidjon
Snookeronidjon
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Snookeronidjon

Some girls are quite possibly made out of pure pain.

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