#multi-genre class

His head is full of words and reasons, sentences strung in his mind with more clarity and sense than you'd ever find on a summer night drive through empty texas roads. Every conversation I've ever had with him feels meaningful, always full. He exhales his cigarette as he steps across piles of snow, tightening his scarf and scuffing his shoes across the street as he hurries to the subway. At night his eyes fall heavy with his hands clutching strange drinks, and I hope he isn't lonely. I hope that for a lot of people, but him especially. His honesty is not like a knife but like a poem, truth that you desperate seek but that no one could ever give you as thoughtfully as he does. He doesn't always believe it but he is essential; if it's possible to be objectively important than he's the exact definition of it. Sometimes he thinks he is lost but really it's just that not enough people have been so lucky to find him yet.

He bites his lip before he says something serious, glances once toward the ceiling if he's about to make a joke, and moves both eyes to the freckles on my cheeks when he's searching for an answer. He talks about God like a childhood memory that he's still trying to piece together as an adult, without pictures or scrapbooks to help. Even though he's pre-med, he's contrarian to making himself feels better. When he sings, it's as if no syllables have ever been pitched into the world with such meticulous gentleness, like the way his fingers move my strands of my hair from my face.