Imperfect

He drops a series of kisses on my neck like slimy, wet bugs, categorically unwanted.

"I love you," he whispers "I love you, too," I say. To me, the words are truth and a lie.

Even though I feel him hesitate, he slides his hand possessively from the small of my back to my hips. I let him.

He has the two most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. His hair is too short. His sweater smells like basil and a Romeo y Julieta cigar.

I wonder if he knows he's my second choice.