Dear Joan,
It's been tough coming to grips with the way I feel about you. Your dimples. Your smile. The way your eyes sparkle like god left them in the rock tumbler a little too long. Your dancing around madly every time anything goes even slightly your way like... like.... your 13 year old self is still inside and the cute Jonas brother is smiling in your direction. Actually... that's how you make me feel. You make me smile. Your soft skin makes my entire body buzz when I touch it. Your raven curls, your carefully constructed tattoos. It all just leaves me doused in teenage cliches.
I can't keep the wool pulled any longer, though. I'm tried of hearing about last nights VH1 reality shows. I'm tired of being in constant fear of what happens if there's a silence in the action laid out before us. We can't maintain this. It can't last. I can't pretend any longer to be interested in you just to be seen with you.... to see and touch you.
There's just not enough in your head to keep me engaged. I'm sorry. I've got to run away before you... me... us... start calling it love out of guilt. You'll find a much better match next time. I'll find someone that appreciates my obscure jokes and academic masturbations.
I just wish you weren't so god-damned amazing to look at.
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