I don’t long for you the way a lover is longed for, not with hope nor excitement, but with the kind of ache that comes from wanting.
You are not beautiful to me, but you are honest.
You do not lie about what you are, and there is a strange kindness in that.
I am not asking you to come tonight.
I am only saying,
if you do, I will not fight, Neither will I run, I’ll open the door,
and maybe I’ll call you friend, Not out of defeat,
but because I’ve run out of reasons to keep pretending
this hurts less than it does.