I'm sorry,
because when we first met I was completely and altogether taken with you.
You had this quirky charm that made me feel comfortable,
made me feel safe.
No matter what was going on,
you just seemed not to care and I took your indifference as a kind of
cold confidence.
And I won't lie,
I liked it.

In groups you shifted between being the center of attention
and having literally nothing to say.
Your social bipolarity
sometimes
led to late night blarings
of Katy Perry.
(I'm vaguely ashamed to admit that
I would dance like a loon, through my old house
and lip sync furiously
at the idea of your Hot and Coldness.)

I'm sorry
because of that one night.
That night when you made some joke
about how we were such good friends.
And I broke down crying and told you absolutely everything.
About how I had liked you,
for so long,
and other foolish things I should've kept to myself.

I'm sorry
because it turns out you felt the same way.
Feel the same way.
Feel that way.
And something happened.
And time passed.
And things changed.
Well, for me they changed.

I'm sorry
because I haven't told you.
I don't know how to tell you.

How do I say it is not you I care for in that way,
but the idea I had of you.
How do I say it,
when I only just admitted to myself,
that this time,
my idea was wrong.

I'm sorry
I was wrong.