No Thief

She was beautiful,
but in a different
sort of way.

Her hair,
long like a country road
that never ends.
A brunette,
with streams and rivers
of honey blonde
and golden auburn.

Chunky black frames
make her
doe eyes
deep enough
to dive into.
Deep enough to
engulf,
to surround him in warmth.

She was beautiful,
and he has loved her
for so long.

Loved her since
sixth grade,
when he saw her
nose peek out
from behind
the novel she was so
diligently studying
alone on the bleachers.

Loved her since
he saw her dance
for the very first time
at the eighth grade
Valentine's Day Ball.

Loved her since
the speech she gave
in ninth grade,
when he watched her lips
move
but couldn't remember a thing
she had said.

She was the kind of beautiful
that made him want  to write
a book,
just to impress her.

She was the kind of beautiful
that made him want to read
every book by every author
in the library just so he would
sound smart,
just in case he ever got the courage
to talk to her.

Surprisingly enough,
one day he did.

I would know,
for I was there.
It was twelfth grade
English,
he opened his mouth,
and she started loving
him too.

She never knew
how beautiful
how wonderfully nerdy
and how perfectly imperfect
he thought she was.

She never knew that I wished
I was her kind of beautiful.

She never knew
how every night
I hoped
that my eyesight would
grow poor,
and my hair would
cascade past my shoulders
in brunette waves
with rivers and streams
of honey blonde and golden auburn.

She never knew
how I pictured myself
picking
chunky black frames
that would magnify
my squinty
ice-blue eyes.

But I could never
be beautiful like her,
at least in that sort of way.

Because my hair is too blonde,
and my waist is too little,
my legs are too long,
and my smile is sad and bitter.

Sadly,
her kind of beautiful is hers,
And I am no thief.