You’re right, you’re right. You’ve always been right. Our kind of thing is different.
We could never fall in love the way the other one wants to be loved.
I know you so well, and as do you, I.
I’m realizing this as I’m sitting on your horribly uncomfortable furniture— not one cushy surface for your bony body— housesitting for you at the end of June. Taking care of your terrible terrier.
Your house is covered in knick-knacks and I snicker at all your hair products.
I’m realizing we will never be together.
Even after I dulled my own attraction, I still held onto this idea of “someday.”
But this kind of a life could never merge with mine. The hard edges and meticulous arrangement. The carefully constructed eccentricity…
There’s no space for my ebb and flow of mess, my crookedly-hung posters and strings of lights.
There’s no space for me with you.