Dear You,

I think about you, you know. Often. Too damn often, with regards to how often I actually see you. After I kiss some other guy, I'll later think of you. How that kiss was nothing like kisses with you. How I just spent several hours talking to some guy who was just waiting for me to finish my sentence so he could talk some more. You always wanted to hear what I had to say. I mean, even tonight, we were just texting, and you were far more attentive to what I was saying via text than this dude was in person.

And it's always that way. Everyone is always held to the bar you created, ever since I met you. Even before we were actually together.

I still love you. There, I said it. I only get brave enough to just fucking say it when I've had a few drinks. Yeah, that's where I am, now. I have to drink to be honest with myself and to be really honest with people that haven't known me long. Even people that have known me long, I still keep things from them. I told you everything, because I knew you wanted to know everything, even the shit that made me imperfect. God, how I loved you and you loved me. I ruined it all. He ruined it all. And I let him. So I ruined it all. One of my good friends, he tells me what this guy did was actually sexual assault. But he was my friend so I labeled it a misunderstanding. It's funny, these guys you think are "nice guys," how they'll disrespect you when they know your wishes, then turn it around like you were in it together. But that's neither here nor there. I've had some beers so I'm going off on irrelevant tangents. Apologies.

Today I texted you. I was reading old journals for the first time in a long time. I read about my love for you. I read things you did and said and ways you made me feel. I forced myself to forget some really wonderful stuff, so that it wouldn't hurt me. But there it was on paper, forcing those memories back up. I asked how you were. We talked vaguely a little. Discussed a couple songs. Then, out of nowhere, you say, "You know you're terrific, right?" And I say, "I certainly don't feel that way, so I appreciate you saying so. Especially since I hold your opinions in very high regard. You're pretty terrific yourself." You replied, "Thanks, that makes me feel fantastic. I really hope we don't stop talking." I said, "Well we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen." You said, "Agreed. It's quite simple really." You followed up with, "I keep expecting you to want me out of your life. I'm worried I remind you of bad times." I wonder how you could even think such a thing. By this time I know you're asleep, but I want you to have something when you wake up, so I reply with the truth, "I'm worried of the same for you. For me, it's quite the opposite."

I wonder, if you could possibly still love me. I wonder when you say things like that. Things that mirror my thoughts. Because I still love you. That's how my still loving heart thinks. I wanted to write you an email instead of this blog entry that you won't see, because no one knows this exists. But I thought better of it, because I'm always thinking better of things. The truth is, you have a girlfriend. I cannot, in good conscience, confess anything when you have a girlfriend. Plus, I'm a little under the influence, and I know you deserve better than an email written by a moderately drunk me. You deserve fireworks and movie scenes.

Well. I still love you. I don't know what else to say. There's no way to conclude this, because I'm not really taking any action. This will just be put into the abyss of the internet. I'm sorry I can't be more than that, right now. I feel like if you were single, I might have just drove to your house after you told me that. And maybe I would have been shot down, you'd tell me you just really valued my friendship. But that'd be better than living with my maybes. Maybe then I could truly move on instead of waiting for my big second chance, make-believing that you still, somewhere deep down, love me. I don't know if I'm fooling myself or not. Only one way to find out. But I can't do it yet.