You’re Just Too Good to Be True
Even though, to you, it must seem like I wished for this to happen, I promise you I didn’t.  Like, you probably think one day, I woke up, and I made the decision that this was law and the law could never be repealed.  Still, that’s not the way it began or the way it is now, but I wish it really was that simple.  I’d have passed an amendment yesterday if it meant purging this feeling out of my body and moving forward with my life (except I wouldn’t have, probably).
Right about now, you’re realizing that I love you.  Well, I’m not even so sure I love you, but when I look at you, it feels like love ought to.  I don’t mean that my palms sweat or my heart thumps fast or my stomach feels like the butterfly house at the zoo (although all of this is true).  It isn’t just that.  When I look at you, everything is yellow. Everything is fresh and nothing is malicious and when I look at you, I am assured that it will all be okay.  Cliché, perhaps, but I have never felt safer than I do when I see.  There’s an aura about you I hope you never lose.  It takes me over and makes me feel like I am loved by and that I do, in fact, love you.  Maybe I’m crazy.  I prefer to disagree.
I hate it, but all I think about is you.  When I love somebody, he becomes everyone I read about.  In the past months, you have starred as Anglo-Saxon heroes, villains, and the protagonist of a one-off short story about running over a bird with your car.  You’ve developed quite a resume – just not where it counts.  Every night, I dream about you, another thing I never wished to happen.  Sometimes, we run toward each other in some grandiose embrace while it rains that would normally make me want to vomit, other times we sit on the couch and laugh, barely making contact, and some nights, I grab you by the collar and now I must stop because this is getting too personal.  It’s all you.  I find myself singing bubblegum pop passionately and without sarcasm, all because suddenly, Liz Phair makes perfect sense to me.  My mood is best described as the horn section in my favorite song by my favorite composer, who is my favorite composer mostly because of you, anyway, and how did I let this happen? 
Can you just give me a little relief?  Hold me tight, press me close, and let me find my release?  Only imagining it, I’m dizzy.  I remember your vanilla tobacco smell and the softness of your skin, and I tense knowing I can’t reach out and touch you whenever I so please.  I’m simply sitting here, scribbling down stupid thoughts, waiting desperately.  Driving, I ache for you.  Running, I need you.  I move around, but as I do, I am waiting impatiently for your vanilla tobacco smell and the softness of your skin.  You had better be one worthy man if you’re making me abandon rationality and feel this way.  I even want to hate you for it, for being so untouchable and making me crazy, but it’s not possible.  I already love you too much to hate you (exclusively).
Hope is the only thing keeping me from breaking down.  Some part of me is convinced you’ll never love me, never see me as anything more than a silly, little girl with dreams bigger than her bones.  I know I should reason with this part of me, the only part that makes any sense anymore, but the biggest parts can’t see anything but the two of us, making our way together, decorating a terrible apartment in my Superman decorations and your art deco.  A terrible mix, they’ll tell us, but we’ll smile at each other like a couple of old Cheetos and say, “But it’s who we are.”  That’s what I see.  That’s what I can’t stop seeing.  I’m sorry to bother you with it (I’m actually not.), but it’s how I feel and I’m tired of holding it in. 
But can this ever happen?  Will you ever look at me and see me?  Stop worrying about the number and start seeing that I’m somebody, regardless of three times three.  Sweetheart, I am somebody who loves you, somebody with a real heart and soul, and if you gave me the chance, I know I could curl up nicely into yours.  We’re a good fit, you and I, and I wouldn’t say it if it was a lie.
Everyday I wish that you would hurry up and catch me, and everyday, I regret making the wish because I believe in jinxes and enough of me is worried that we don’t actually belong together but that has to be crazy because I’ve never felt this way before and that must mean the grooves of my soul match up with yours just like the movies.
Right?
God, help me.  I’m going out of my mind.  I can’t tell if I’m a lunatic or if I’ve fallen in love, and a brain like mine just doesn’t know how to handle it.  Are those the same thing, love and lunacy?  I hope they are, considering I don’t think I’ll ever be in the mood to hug myself in a straightjacket.  The not knowing, the secrecy of these stupid feelings, that’s what’s driving me mad.  But, love, you’re just too good to be true, and if you ever knew what my body and brain did when they thought about you, you’d laugh five ways to next Sunday.  And I don’t think I’m ready for it.
Either way, I’m damned.  If I tell you, to your face that I love you, and you think me a joke, my heart will break and I’ll have to measure out the precise number of tortilla chips and episodes of The Office it will take to get over your big brown eyes and deep, sturdy voice that would make even a rejection sound like music.  But if I tell you I love you, and you love me, too, the fantasy all becomes a reality.  I have to deal with you and with the fact that you chose me.  Am I ready for that, or am I just too young and foolish?  I look into your eyes and feel secure all over again.  With a lift of your brow, you answer all my questions, and you don’t even know what they’re doing to me.  You have more talents than you realize.
Now I must make my choice.  I could go on forever, not knowing how you would have taken the news, and I’d always regret what I never tried.  I didn’t will myself to fall in love with you – not at all.  Every minute, I get closer to where I need to be, and every minute, you’ve been beside me.  I want to confess it all so that the feelings go away.  Doesn’t change the fact that I still remember.  You’re just too good to be true.