A Not Love Letter

I do not love you. But I do lust for you, and I also miss you. When I think about getting up in the morning, I think about climbing out of your bed and tip-toeing to the bathroom in the blueish light that shines through the window. I think about climbing back under the covers and wrapping myself around you, feeling your heat cover me, feeling your arms and your legs fold into mine, closing my eyes to the happiness that is being next to you.

I smile at you. I smile because you are so human. I knew your faults before I knew your charm or your sweetness. I remember every time you have dropped belongings out of your hands; I keep a picture in my head of the laughter afterwards. I remember every time you have walked ungracefully through the door. I hope it is because you know I am watching. I remember all the humbling things you have told me about yourself. My favorite part is your bashful smile when you realize you have told me more than you expected, again. I like that you want to impress me but you don’t know that I like a work in progress.

I do not love you. I am scared of you. On a Sunday afternoon, I lie on my carpet and think of seven reasons why you don’t call. On Thursday night, I wait for you but you don’t come and my heartbeat gets faster and heavier and louder until I can’t hear the voice in my head that says it’s all right, because the voice has been drowned out by hot tears starting to fight their way down my cheek. I feel foolish and embarrassed, like I’ve worn the wrong outfit to school and everyone is pointing as I walk down the hallway. Do they all know that it’s the first time you’ve disappointed me? I excuse myself to wipe off the tears and there you stand, by the door, drunk. I can’t bear to be here in this room, but you run after my car and kiss my neck and that makes me feel better and worse. I am scared of you because you don’t even know how much you might mean to me.

When I think about weekends, I think about your soft couch and lying all over it with our feet touching and our hands touching and our lips touching. I think about the acronyms we’ve invented as excuses for staying in bed. One more hour, ten more minutes, thirty more seconds. Instead of going home, we go to lunch. Instead of going to sleep, we talk. Instead of doing work, I daydream because it is Saturday and Sunday and I don’t have to be responsible and I can wear your clothes and eat candy in the movie theater and hear about what you were like as a boy. The whole day passes and I am in awe that I have been smiling since yesterday.

My feelings are quiet even though I wear them on my face. You have seen me cry over hurt feelings and hurt electronics. I know I am grown up and I have a career and I pay my bills on time and my haircut matches my wardrobe, but I need lots of hugs. You are quick to hug. You are quick to apologize. You are quick to tell me all the stupid things you’ve done that are even worse than my stupid things and that turns my sadness into giggles. It makes me wonder if my not love could turn into yes love.

I hope you read this and don’t know at once that it is about you. I never show you what I write because it is too personal, even though you know all my other personal details, like my favorite vegetable, or how I drool in my sleep, or the restaurants I have taken all my first dates in the past. I hope that deep down, you understand that I do not love you today, but I will later, or soon. Maybe you understand why the idea of you is scary and why I smile when I answer the phone and the difference between then and now. I hope your now is better than your then. I hope I am better than your then.

I hope you do not love me just as I do not love you.