"But do you love me?"

Love? What is love? Love is a social construct. Love is an excuse to screw someone you think is hot. Love is a joke, a trap, an illusion. Love is what you wish for when you don't know how the world really works.

I see your skin and I think of you naked, wish for you to fall into my arms so I can possess you. Part of me wants you now, part of me wants you always.

There's only a limited extent to which these parts overlap.

Lust after you, to be sure. Like you? Yes, of course. I like the way you laugh, the way you smile, even the way you cry and rage. There are depths of passion within you that I could never match, could never hope to attain. Living with you would be like living with the person I wish I could be.

But love you? Is admiration and (yes, I admit it) jealousy the same as love? Is that even the kind of seed from which love could one day grow?

I'm only a man, and a poor excuse of one at that. While you...

"Yes. I love you. Of course I love you, how could you not know that I love you?"