the one i like.

she asked me: 'what kind of girl you like?'

i laughed and mimicked helen keller.
i wanted her to ask again, but this time giving me some kind of sing that it was really a selfish question.

this time i needed her to ask: 'what is it about me that you like?'
but she didn't. she repeated the original question.

i wanted to tell her about all my failed relationships
and how in each of those i chose the girl for the wrong reason.

i didn't need an 'awww'
i just want her to believe in fate and believe that each of those failed relationships let me down a path that forked here.

shit like that only happens in movies with white folks.

i needed a 'thorough bitch.'
an 'adapt in any borough bitch.'
-biggie smalls.

i want to stand on a dance floor
unable to hear her
but watching her lips move to every word of jay-z's 'party life.'

i want to be able to hit her with a pillow during an argument
then all her a nigga and we both laugh cause we know the argument is stupid.

while eating from the wendy's dollar menu we'd come up with jokes about each others mother.
of course mine would be funnier, so i'd joke her about her lameness.

i want to fart under covers and blame her while holding her head under here until the smell disappears.

we're standing on the corner blowing heat into our hands, drinking from green and white cups, thinking of the places we were warm last, talking about this woman i'd like to find.

so i stood there remembering my theories on fantasies.
some should remain just that: a fantasy.
they keep us hoping. keep us believing.

when they become real, we have to deal with the real.
the bullshit that comes along with 'real.'

and i realized these were all thoughts.
i had said nothing.
her question had not been answered.
and my hands were freezing.

'i'll buy you a hot chocolate' she said.

'thanks. i'd like that.'