Dear December | ✓

M À G O A

banner above by yours truly.
gif banner in multimedia by the lovely sedatative

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

m à g o a

(n.) a heartbreaking feeling that leaves long lasting traces, visible in gestures and facial expressions.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Dear December,

December. December. December.

God, I am in love with your name. And I love writing it. Over and over and over again. Everyone calls you Dec, ("Dec, softer, like a Des, not Deck," you correct them,) but how can I call you that when your full name is so orphic? So utterly beautiful? I love the way it rolls off my tongue, in soft, low syllables. It's an uncommon name, but it suits you so well. I cannot imagine you with any other name. This will sound like something out of cheesy chick flick, but it's true nonetheless. Your name is beautiful. And you, beautifuller.

You probably know this already (or maybe you don't: I haven't told anyone at school and I can act pretty good,) but I like you. Not just as a friend, but also more than a friend. Yes, I like you, December Elliot, and I wish I had the guts to say this to you in person.

But I have one question, Dec: Why? Why you? I have been asking myself this since the beginning of time, and this has led me to make a list of possible reasons.

I like your eyes. Those glaucous pits of grey with the flecks of navy --- I have seen them when you're happy, dark yet bright, and I have seen them when you're sad --- so grey and full of emotions and they just . . . they just take my breath away.

You take my breath away.

I will never in a million years admit this to your face (and boost your already over-inflated ego,) but . . . you have a really nice smile. The way you look down at the ground when you smile, corners of your lips tugging upwards with the dimple indenting your right cheek, it just makes me want to push you against the wall and kiss you. There, I just said it. I fancy the pants off you, December. Sue my hormones.

And your hair. Your stupid smile and your stupid dimple and your stupid obsession with your stupid hair.

How many times do I have to tell you it looks better when it's messy? Not that your gelled quiff doesn't look good. To be honest, you'd probably look just as hot even if you shaved your head. Just yesterday, you slapped my hands away when I ruffled your thick mane. (I was just teasing you, I swear. You didn't have to get so defensive.) While I'll admit that the new platinum blond looks good on you, but your actual black hair suit you pretty fine. Remember how that one time I tried to put some pencil shaving on your hair and you shrieked like a girl in the middle of Mr. Dawson's lecture?