we were made to love, but we're not the best at it

wrote the following:

you would be perfect if i could bring myself to love you (but i don't). i've drunkenly imagined our children. your eyes, my snark, our inside jokes. but our dreams, attractions, and children will never be mutually exclusive. not because it's implausible... you play me songs. it means something, somehow, anyway. i will not let us love each other. it's too much, too soon, too trivial. i'd rather be your fuckbuddy and keep it simple and soulless. she's even encouraged it, gotten my hopes up, when i know the truth: it isn't, shouldn't, and will NOT happen, as long as i know better. you'll get your picket fence, and i'll have my city loft. i don't know if i'm terrified of reciprocity, or just plain terrified, but i do know that i want nothing more than for you to gather me in your tangled sheets, liquor me up and love me. for that, and for finding you obnoxiously beautiful, i am sorry.