I'm not in love with you anymore. You don't look the same, smell the same; you don't feel the same. Yet I still find myself leaning in to your touch, inhaling your sweet, new scent as my fingers graze your skin. You're not the same. You're not the one I fell for.

Who are you now? Who were you? Can I still sit just inches away from you and not feel the urge to kiss you one last time?

Today, as the breeze hit my face, as you sang next to me in your car as we drove towards an unknown destination, I felt it. That friendship that began and end during our junior year. It's coming, creeping back into my heart, doing its best to fill in that huge, gaping hole you left inside of me.

I still want to kiss you. I still look at your lips, and your face, and your hands when you don't think I'm looking, and I want you. It hurts so badly sometimes that I just want to die. But now I know there is a tomorrow for us. You may think you don't need me, you may think you won't miss me, but tomorrow, things might look a little different.

Get some perspective. Know that I love you, and I always will.

I feel less than whole. Like you're my necessary, more complete yet not better half. Things just make more sense while I'm sitting in the passenger seat of your Volvo, listening to you sing in French with your beautiful booming tenor voice, notes sweeping me away from the day and away from the things that make my stomach into a thousand twisted knots.

Even the way you make me feel when you look at me with those eyes can't compare to the emptiness I often feel in my own home.

Somehow, even under your stern gaze, I face no scrutiny when I'm with you. I can act as inane as I want, you can proclaim my naivety, idiocy, immaturity as often as you like. And it just isn't the same.

I love you, and maybe that's making me stupid. I put up with more shit where you're concerned. I shouldn't. I've been told time and time again that you're an ass, you aren't worth the time, the trouble, the pain, and they're probably all right. Yet here I am still, four years later, stuck by your side and loving you all the more. You have some power over me, and you know it. You've driven me to extremes I never would have imagined. Realms of thought, emotion, rebellion, and sex. With your guiding and oftentimes trouble-seeking hand, I've experienced. I've lived.

I hate you, but I don't see how I could ever love you more. I miss kissing you. I miss you. But I'm looking forward to what has yet to come. Just please don't make me have to see you with her.

I love your hands. I love the way you look at me hungrily, and I can actually have a moment to feel almost beautiful. The way you capture my lip between yours, want me to experience everything, now, hold my hand and stroke my palm with your rough thumbs. You get inside of me, sometimes in more ways than one, and I cannot figure out how. You've torn down, destroyed so many walls that I very carefully put up, and around you I feel so naked. You see right through me. You get under my skin. You annoy, anger, empower me, and I hate you for it. I've cried over you more times than I've ever cried for anything else.

But you know what?

I still love you. And I know I always will.

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