His name is John Michael Thomas, and he’s pretty much the most beautiful person I’ve seen. Pretty much. Well, to be specific, the 3rd most beautiful. Two spots behind my baby sister on her wedding day, and right behind you. On your worst day. He’s tall like me, just about. Probably six three and change. The kind of tall that I don’t have to bend too much to kiss his mouth, that I don’t get kinks in my neck from stretching too low to cuddle him.
I don’t get as many massages though.
He has dark brown, almost black, hair. It doesn’t ever look out of place and is always styled to the nines. It doesn’t poke and tickle my palm when I run my hands through it. My Johnny, as I secretly call him - secretly because he doesn’t really like nicknames – has the bluest of blue eyes. The kind of blue that’ll stop a person mid-step because they’re so breathtaking. The kind of blue that doesn’t even look green. Not even a little at all. He’s got a pointy nose that isn’t covered in freckles, and a small mouth that isn’t exactly plush. He has a beautiful smile that everybody loves, but it isn’t mine alone, and it doesn’t make the skin around his eyes crinkle.
He’s well-dressed, well-spoken, has a welldefined palate, and he’s all around well-behaved. They all love him; Momma, Daddy, my baby sister and Jeff. Hell, even Chad thinks Johnny is perfect for me. They say he’ll make me happy. Make me stop missing lazy days filled with fart jokes, jeans, sneakers and tees, and bar-be-cue’d ribs with sticky sauce dripping from my face, your face, our faces. They say he’ll be good for me.
Momma says he’ll reintroduce me to God. Get in to church and to read the Bible again. Stop cursing. He doesn’t tolerate Sundays in bed and days where every other word is goddamn and motherfucker. He can’t call me a dick and then kiss my forehead to make sure I know he doesn’t mean it. He won’t roll his eyes at my clumsiness after I’ve broken his favorite guitar by falling into it.
Surprisingly, John Michael loves music. He loves to sing loudly and off key. He loves Eighties' pop like Debbie Gibson and Madonna. WHAM! even. He doesn’t appreciate music with actual instruments, though. Couldn’t differentiate bass from acoustic if asked. You… well, you taught me all there is to know about real music. You probably still sit in the record store for hours, eyes closed, swaying with the sounds of Etta, Clapton, and Strait. Rock along with Elvis. Emo out with Jack and Sexton. He’s never had his voice recorded on CD. I have all of your songs on my iPod.
Sandy says he’s like a new pair of jeans; pretty yes, but still stiff and ill-fitting. But you know how jeans can mold to your body and fit like a second skin? She thinks I just need to let myself get used to him. But, I just don’t see why I can’t keep my favorite, broken in, comfortable jeans.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 04:12 am (UTC)I don’t get as many massages though.
He has dark brown, almost black, hair. It doesn’t ever look out of place and is always styled to the nines. It doesn’t poke and tickle my palm when I run my hands through it. My Johnny, as I secretly call him - secretly because he doesn’t really like nicknames – has the bluest of blue eyes. The kind of blue that’ll stop a person mid-step because they’re so breathtaking. The kind of blue that doesn’t even look green. Not even a little at all. He’s got a pointy nose that isn’t covered in freckles, and a small mouth that isn’t exactly plush. He has a beautiful smile that everybody loves, but it isn’t mine alone, and it doesn’t make the skin around his eyes crinkle.
He’s well-dressed, well-spoken, has a welldefined palate, and he’s all around well-behaved. They all love him; Momma, Daddy, my baby sister and Jeff. Hell, even Chad thinks Johnny is perfect for me. They say he’ll make me happy. Make me stop missing lazy days filled with fart jokes, jeans, sneakers and tees, and bar-be-cue’d ribs with sticky sauce dripping from my face, your face, our faces. They say he’ll be good for me.
Momma says he’ll reintroduce me to God. Get in to church and to read the Bible again. Stop cursing. He doesn’t tolerate Sundays in bed and days where every other word is goddamn and motherfucker. He can’t call me a dick and then kiss my forehead to make sure I know he doesn’t mean it. He won’t roll his eyes at my clumsiness after I’ve broken his favorite guitar by falling into it.
Surprisingly, John Michael loves music. He loves to sing loudly and off key. He loves Eighties' pop like Debbie Gibson and Madonna. WHAM! even. He doesn’t appreciate music with actual instruments, though. Couldn’t differentiate bass from acoustic if asked. You… well, you taught me all there is to know about real music. You probably still sit in the record store for hours, eyes closed, swaying with the sounds of Etta, Clapton, and Strait. Rock along with Elvis. Emo out with Jack and Sexton. He’s never had his voice recorded on CD. I have all of your songs on my iPod.
Sandy says he’s like a new pair of jeans; pretty yes, but still stiff and ill-fitting. But you know how jeans can mold to your body and fit like a second skin? She thinks I just need to let myself get used to him. But, I just don’t see why I can’t keep my favorite, broken in, comfortable jeans.
You were my comfortable jeans.