So I could make this a diary entry. Of course it would be easier to do that if I was writing this in my already cluttered notebook, and actually had room to draw little hearts and roses around your name and mine. I could go on and on about how amazing you are, how gorgeous you are, how much I love you. The problem is, I'm only completely sure of the second one.
You asked me last night why I like you. What kind of question is that? Why do you like me?
Is it because I'm hot? Sure, all the guys think that, but I'm sure you've seen hotter. After all, you're popular, sexy, the freaking lead singer in a band. You could take your pick of the girls.
Is it because I'm innocent? I guess it would be a relief, after all the time you've wasted with whores and gold-diggers, to stumble across a virginal little preacher's daughter like myself. But you must know that you'll only get so much out of a good girl like me.
Is it because I play hard to get? It's not like I'm trying to. If I could just have you and be done with it, I would. But it's a two-way game, you know. I mess with your mind, you mess with mine; I dance in and out of reach, you do the same.
After all, that is what you live for, isn't it? The thrill of the chase? You've said it yourself. With the never-ending cycle of sex, drugs, and rock and roll that is your life, you're just looking for something different, something that carries the elusive glimmer of purity, of a higher existence. And you're willing to risk everything just to find that thing, to breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of clean, unadulterated life.
I know what you see me as. The damsel in distress, sheltered and locked away by her parents and longing to have some fun. The artsy, slightly weird girl with a genius IQ but little knowledge of sexual innuendos or how to smoke weed. The one who has a surprisingly stinging sense of humor and can easily match you in verbal sparring. Your rival. Your protegee. Your princess. And maybe, just maybe, your savior.
So as you can see, I think I have it pretty much figured out why you like me. At least, unless there's an unidentified X factor that I'm somehow missing. The question that remains is, why do I like you?
Like is a terrible word for how I feel toward you. It's so much deeper than that, so much stronger. I would not go so far as to say love, but it can't be denied that I have some kind of passion for you. I find myself just wanting to be near you, to see your face, hear your voice. To touch you.
Now see what you've done. Good little preacher's daughters don't think things like that. When their daddies tell them not to hang around with a certain wrong crowd, or--God forbid--a certain bad boy, they listen. They obey. But there's just something about you that arouses the rebel in me, makes me feel bold and adventurous and . . . alive.
I like that you can match wits with me. I like that you spill your secrets to me. I like that you know what makes me happy, sad, angry, nervous, confused, afraid. . . . But even so, you can't always figure me out. And you're somewhat of a mystery to me as well. So we dance ever tighter circles around each other, watching, waiting. Wanting. But never winning. Two tantalizing prizes just out of each other's reach. As if we are simultaneously leaning forward, our lips almost touching--but one of us always pulls away at the last moment.
But I do know one thing. If there ever comes a time when one of us doesn't pull away, that is going to be one hell of a kiss.
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