I kept forgetting not to remember you. Forgetting not to remember the way you felt in my arms, even though you had been unconscious at the time. I often laughed at myself for the infatuation I had with you, but I knew it was more than just that. I couldn’t forget you. What have you done to me?

            I was fine before, I could look at a sunrise and not wish you were there to see it with me, I could eat a meal and not wish that, despite the foul taste, it was you that had made it for me.

             I resented the sound of your voice, I hated the soft silky feel of your hair, I hated the gentle scent that followed you around, so different from all those that constantly piled perfume on them. But most of all, I hated the expression on your face, when he came.

            You couldn’t let him go, and I couldn’t let you go. It seemed a vicious unfair circle. I already had one woman in my life I couldn’t let go, I needed no more.

            But you, you pried your way past her, even so far as to be put on a pedestal above her.  And even worse, I wanted you there. I lovingly polished the damn thing, even after he beat me and my sister stopped smiling.

            I missed the way you yelled at me halfheartedly, because I know you didn’t really mean it. I missed your courage; trying to escape and attack an enemy you had no chance of defeating. You were not afraid of me. The first person in a long time to approach me without fear.

            I tell myself I only want you as a revenge on my sister’s killer, but I know that isn’t true. I would likely want you if you killed my sister yourself, though the thought disturbs me.

            I know you’ve never killed anyone, nor really caused pain other than to defend yourself.  And I wonder. I wonder if you could ever look at me with those eyes that you see him through, even knowing all that I’ve done.

            I know you accept him despite his faults, but after all, he really is a better person than I. I know he didn’t have any ill intention the whole time he fought in the war. The words my sister told me I finally understand.

            Could you ever love me the way I… hate you?  Ok I know that I’m in denial, but I’d rather not admit that I love you when I know that all you’d do is pity me.

            But there’s still some doubt. Somewhere I still feel like I might hive a chance, and as long as the chance is not zero, I have hope.

            It’s decided, in my mind.  I want you…I love you… hell; I might go so far as to say I need you. I’ll risk anything for a chance with you, even rejection.

            Wait for me, I’m coming after you.