This isn't what you think. Or maybe it is. But probably not.

You: runner, math wiz, apathetic extraordinaire. There are sides of you that no one sees. There are sides of you that I see. There are pieces of you I have fallen in love with, and there are pieces I haven't. The pieces I love sit at my counter, open their cupboard, hold my sisters, drive my car, teach me calculus, tell me the truth. There are things wrong with you. There are things wrong with me. We are very different. We've worked out what to do with all my mother's dishes if we ever got married, but you have all those reasons we never will. Neither of us can remember those reasons. No one else is welcome in my home quite like you are. No one else is welcome as often as you are. My darling, all I worry about is destruction. Destruction with my own lips, destruction without them. Either way, we'll implode, or maybe we won't. Maybe we'll be the only things that never die. Maybe we saved each other. Maybe you'll be my demise. Maybe I'll be yours. It isn't as romantic as it sounds. 

You look lovely just because I know you. I'm careful not to let you break anyone else's heart, but I've never been worried about you breaking mine: I already understand the workings of Pompeii.

Vector arithmetic.
All my love,
Addy