We discount this as Missing You As A Person, but that's a lie. The truth is that I can't live without you and you can't live without the feeling of my tongue behind your teeth. I know, I know, that's not all I am for you, but we aren't just Missing Each Other As People, either. It's alright, though. Not your fault. I came when beckoned. We were built this way. We can discount this as is Human Nature.
I wish I was the kind of person who could stay the night. I wish I was the kind of person who could answer your questions or the kind of person with shiny enough hair and long enough limbs and enough time to keep you in love with me, but I am not. I know, I know, it's not me; it's you. This is a cliche, but cliches are only truths that won.
The truth is that I look at you and I am falling in love with you every moment. Not because you're perfect, but because your flaws are seriously sexy. This is something you know about yourself. This is something you use to your advantage. This is something I have known for a long time, but I am still here, writing about you. Still here. Writing about you. 50,000 and counting. Nothing coherent enough to count, unfortunately.
I don't like broken boys. I don't see disaster boys and fall head over heels because I want to fix them. I see disaster boys and fall head over heels because they are exciting and smell like danger and smoke. I know you: I've loved a thousand less wonderful versions of you before. You wear leather jackets. This is not a metaphor at all.
I stood in this same place last November, left out here in the cold by the first of the thousand less wonderful versions of you. I'm here in the cold, back again this November, but you took the time to knit me some mittens and kiss my cheeks before closing the door. I love you more than I ever loved the less wonderful versions of you. November isn't my month or something.
But the real horror here is this: In one moment, stepping back into your warmth, I ruined any chance at afternoons in art museums with you or time in the city and all the times between the night we met and today when I left and the shapes of the days in between, because I didn't mean to come back inside when you opened the door, should've been smart enough for both of us, but this is Human Nature, this is Missing You As A Person, really and honestly, Missing You As A Person, and this is living because I have you and the taste of my tongue behind your teeth, and this is how it feels on Monday afternoon when all I can do is apologize, even though it takes two to tango (which of course you disagree with), hoping that somehow my eloquence will be beautiful enough for both of us, eloquent enough for all cracks to be filled, November isn't my month or something, eloquence instead of shiny long hair and and long enough limbs and answers to your questions and glory, but the only things you've ever loved have stayed the night.
"Her name was New York. She poisoned your sweet mind."
All my love,