It hurts to love you.

It hurts because you prefer Chanel No. 22 over No. 5, and you adore Beethoven but despise Mozart. Because your eyes cradle galaxies and your mouth holds the oceans, but your heart is buried at the center of the earth. Because you look gorgeous at 6 o'clock in the morning when you've had 5 minutes to get ready. Because you aspire to be like Austen but, more often than not, you tend to sound like Plath.

It hurts because you worry about your hair when it looks its very best, and your eyes look toward your hands when I try and hold your gaze. But when you're tired, you find rest in the hollow between my head and shoulder. The worst you've done is love too frequently and with far too great a passion. Conversations with you leave my crooked heart just a little bit straighter and my tongue drenched in honey.

It hurts because you're the first person to try save me from the tragedy of my own existence. I was a nihilist and a romantic, and thanks to you only one of those things is now true. You changed everything. When I first met you, you moved like magic. You consumed rooms and overtook them. Your veins were filled with the ichor of the gods and there was music embedded in the very fabric of your bones. Your smile birthed stars that formed constellations that made the heavens shine so much brighter.

It hurts to love you because everyone does. You're magnetic, electric, and others are swayed by the unique gravity that surrounds you. You're the golden girl, you open your mouth and the moon comes out. You're clothed in royalty and wear affection like an armor and every cell in your body is saturated with love.

It hurts to love you because you are brilliant and stunning and witty and intelligent and everything I will ever want.

It hurts because when you look at me you seem believe that I am beautiful and clever and funny and everything I am not. I don’t think you know me at all.

Because if you did, you’d realize that you deserve so much more than me.