The Glutton

For you I've always made an exception. I don't even know why. It has nothing to do in the least with how much I wanted to get in your pants. Well that's done with. 

I miss you. I don't even know why. Maybe we're alike. Maybe we're not at all. I can't tell which one it is but it sure as hell is a powerful draw. 

If we are friends, we're a funny sort. I'm overwhelmed by you. I don't even know why. It's taken a million conversations to make one. And the lack of any is making me fidgety. 

I don't even know why.

At the best of times, you're a schmuck. I can see right through you but I pretend not to. I still write my heart out to you at two in the morning, just so that you can smile at this. And hate me for calling you a schmuck.

This is the love letter I never wrote. I do love you. More than you can believe. Hell, more than I'm willing to settle for. I don't even know why.

When you looked at me through the screen, when I took off my clothes for you, I did it for the tiny window that shows up on the side of the monitor. And I couldn't believe my eyes, or what my hands were doing. 

Didn't you see it then, you bastard? I didn't either. That's probably why I'm writing this to you at two in the morning. After five miserable years of knowing of your existence, I'm finally admitting how much I hated myself when I first met you.