I don't hate you.
I like you.
Far more than I should,
to have only known you like six months, ok?
But not in a clingy way,
or a weird I-want-the-D kind of way.
I like you in the way that
sometimes I watch you walk
because you're lanky and graceful, and
because I like how your hands don't take up an
awkward amount of space on my knee
even though they're freaking huge.
I like that so far
what I know of you has actually lived up to the expectations
of this weird idealized version of you
I have in my head.
And I would really like
if you liked me
nearly one fourth the amount
I wish you would,
but I'm better off if you just say
"ok" now and act like
I never said any of this.