He has skin the colour of washed beige, or an overly milked latte, a pale toffee, or a slightly tanned deer.
My skin is white where the sun never shines, reddish around my cheeks when I think of Him, and burns in minutes in the sun.
He shaves His hair when possible, hating the woolly curls his ancestors left Him with, while I would love to play with the thick strands against my fingers.
My hair, in contrast, is long and straight, brushing my breasts when I stand up straight.
He has the voice of a man who is not scared to speak His opinion. My voice creaks and squeaks, the twelve years old me trapped inside my vocal cords, reminding me of the time when my life got put on hold and accelerated simultaneously.
He worries about a few extra pounds gained over the summer, while my rolls overflow my jeans with abandon.
He prefers herbal shots. I like fruity ciders and biting wine.
He believes there’s a higher power, however fucked up it might be. I am a raised atheist, reinforced a thousandfold how I can only count on myself.
He is disenchanted by human nature, lost all hope about humanity conquering and surviving all. I study the social sciences, lulling myself to believe that we got through all that, surely we can make it.
It takes him five minutes to walk through the front door after waking. I craft my face for half an hour, ten minutes if I’m running late.
He prefers to watch Netflix while I subscribe to Prime.
He in uncut and unshaven, while I try to keep things trimmed.
He waited until He got married, I couldn’t care less who took it.
He knows it’s all fucked up, and could, possibly, walk away from it, turn it platonic, be friendly and that’s it. I die a little every time I think of a time when He will no longer let Himself care, a time when I won’t get any response, a time when all my efforts and hopes crumble and fall on deaf ears, turned the other way on purpose, because I wasn’t there in time, because I wasn’t there in person.