I can't in good faith say that I love you-

not the way they say I should:

unconditionally, irrevocably, unreasonably.

You are my first thought in the morning,

and nearly the last at night;

somewhere in the mix, I get lost

in cotton candy sauropods and train tracks made of gold.

If you asked it of me,

I would burn my world to the ground,

set fire to the rickety apartment I share

with the cat you found

and promptly grew bored of.

I'd throw the ashes to the wind,

follow you on some stupid journey

of running from our past and charges

of criminal arson.

And yet I don't love you.

Your flaws are not charming.

Your teeth are crooked, your nose just a little

too big, and your eyes

are tired and look toward a place

that I cannot see.

I hate this you.

I dream of a day when your smile

doesn't look like the quiet pain

of an awkward middle-schooler.

I long for a you that can speak

without stammer,

without your bushy eyebrows turned up

at the center of your brow,

always afraid and seeking approval.

Your voice wouldn't squeak,

when you deny my compliments--

you wouldn't do that.

In my mind,

you are beautiful and bold,

and you know that you're worth everything I have

and more.

You could be perfect.

But you're not.

I can't love you,

not just the way you are.