Dear neon green haired punk boy at the mechanics this morning;

I should have told you I liked your hair.

I was taking in my van at the same time you were getting your pickup looked at, copper hair and denim jacket, already admiring the patches on your vest. Your neon green Mohawk was covered by a hat but perfectly, vibrantly dyed. You turned to me and smiled and said hey. I blushed and look at my feet and mumbled a stilted hello.

I should have told you I like your hair.

It’s so simple. Four little words. I. Like. Your. Hair. But so much could have happened if I did.

You could say nothing, and I could have felt awkward. You could have said thanks, my girlfriend dyes it!, and I would feel pleased that I could give you a compliment that you both will enjoy.

Maybe you would have blushed too, and said you liked my jacket. I’d tell you about my art and you’d tell me about your music and we’d both feel the intoxicating rush of finding familiarity from previous nothingness. We’d plan to meet later and I’d feel stars in my eyes with each new text and the rush of butterflies before meeting again. We’d walk and talk in a nervous rush for hours, so eager to learn more about each other that any other sustenance seems useless. Perhaps our fingers would brush accidentally and crackle with electricity that startles us both into quiet and anticipation. Maybe then we would finally, finally, FINALLY allow our lips to touch and your arm would circle around my waist just as my hand would caress your back and the overwhelming feelings of lust and longing and newness and sparkling lights of the stars behind my eyes exploding into supernovas.

Maybe you just would have said thanks, smiled, and walked past me.

I should have told you I like your hair.