Leila

Leila is perfect. She has a laugh that will make you want to pull your heart out. She has the body of a runway model. Her smile would lite up an arena. Her dimple, her face, her natural curly hair, the way she walks and touches you, her eyes, her sense of fashion, the way she dances, and jokes about herself, her voice, her music taste, her bubbly personality, the way she makes you forget about your empty shell of a life. “What brings you in today?” She’s the girl of my dreams but I let her slip away from my fingertips like a bar of soap and an unlucky inmate. She made me feel like how Joe Rogan describes taking DMT. Her love is so powerful that I haven’t talked to her in years and think about her every second of every day. She’s just perfect. So perfect that I’m convinced she hates my guts while I ignore her and write this stupid therapy like essay for a definition. I hope one day we can die of old age together and look back on the days when we were young and dumb while rocking back and forth on loud squeaky chairs on top of a house overlooking a lake as you knit an ugly sweater and I stare happily into nothingness. I hope you can forgive me for how much of a smelly turd I am. I hope my feelings about the future aren’t faulty and I know that no matter what happens you will be happy. I love you bubz.