I fell in love with a boy with too many moles and a set of spindly arms and legs that seemed to sprout from his led zeppelin t-shirt. His face sporadically surfaced with tiny red pimples, occasionally broken by smooth patches of juvenile facial hair. His thick rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he leaned over his notebook intently, sketching portraits of long forgotten TV stars. How I would have loved to lock into his mouth full of metal.
He was maladroit teenage perfection.