• What are you running from?

    by  • July 20, 2011 • * Safe for Work *, Dating • 0 Comments

    Dear Boy,

    I think I’m in love with you. And by “think”, I mean I’m fairly certain. I want to be able to tell you this, but I’m so confused about how you feel toward me that I just can’t bring myself to say the words out loud. When your arms wrap around me and my head is on your chest, when I feel your breath come more evenly and I know you’re drifting, I mouth the words. I tell you that I love you every time I see you, you just never know.

    Some days, I think it’s just infatuation; when we part ways on a street corner and you wave an awkward goodbye, I wonder how I could possibly love you. Some days, I think I’m falling; when you text message me encouraging words for my day and tell me you want to picnic, I get butterflies. Some days, I know it’s love; when your fingers are tangled in the back of my hair and you’re looking so intensely into my eyes, I can’t imagine feeling more intensely for another man.

    Yet you push me away. You tell me you care for me, but that you’ll continue to try and keep your distance, for your own reasons. What could those reasons possibly be? You’ve already told me some of your darkest secrets and some of your loftiest aspirations. Would I hold you back? Am I not good enough for you? There are days when I wonder if anyone you know even knows about me. And then, at night when I stray too far from your warm body, your arms are always there to pull me back in and kiss me. It’s when you’re half-asleep that I see the most that, maybe, you love me too.

    You talk in your sleep. Not much, and it’s rarely even a complete sentence. But if I talk to you, sometimes you talk back. You worry about “other boys coming first” and call me “babe”. I told you once, and I’ll tell you over and over again: you are the only one. You asked me to be exclusive, knowing damn well I haven’t been monogamous in over a year and a half, and I unblinkingly did. For you. Now where are you? Squeezing me into your oh-so-busy schedule seems such a hassle, and if I bug you about it, I’m “clingy”.

    I don’t understand you, Boy, and the things you do can hurt. But I think I’m in love with you. Please stop running and realize you care for me, too.

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