He's not my type
He's anything but my type. Two tattoos, a worn leather jacket complete with carefully added spikes and studs, and various piercings.
I walk beside him in my wardrobe of Nordstrom's clothing, carefully coordinated, every hair in place. My makeup alone can take twenty minutes out of any morning.
He has anything but my taste. He listens to punk rock, heavy stuff with an edge that "tears you right in the back of the throat."
I don't recognize half the music in his collection. I listen to soft music, vocal and stirring. When I listen to a song I want to get lost in it and not return until the final note fades.
He has anything but my dreams. He dropped out of college, not once but twice. Now he makes chainmail and plans for technical school, and a future in music.
I've had my life planned out for years: college, law school, a good career and a good home. I collect knowledge like my peers used to collect Pogs and Beanie Babies.
We don't belong together. But we are. At least for now, this instant, before something becomes too much. Before our priorities conflict beyond repair. Before the differences become too great.
We don't belong together.
But I'd like us to.