inferiority

i miss his large, warm hands and his scent. i miss his crooked smile and silly jokes. i miss his hugs and the way he fidgets in his sleep.

i wonder if he misses me.

perhaps he misses the other girl. the prettier girl, with the long, brown hair and dark eyes. she has a beautiful face and a white, straight smile. she is petite and thin.

she produces art but not in the same way as me. she draws and paints and all i have are these lousy words.

i do not think he misses me.

i see them together and i am left with a bad taste in my mouth. they take pictures together. we never took pictures together.

i guess i was never pretty enough.

the last time i visited him, her art was on display in his room. my words were always tucked away in his antique dresser drawer.

understandably.