John might be nice, but his eyes are hazel, not blue. He doesn’t wear soft faded jeans with holes at the knees with torn edges. Or leather jackets that smell like smoke and woods. He doesn’t have pictures in his skin, a storybook for me to someday read. And he doesn’t make my heart flutter. He probably doesn’t even own a soft blanket. He’s not prince material, and he never will be. Everyone knows there can only be one prince, and I’ve already found mine.
