Please go away. Last night, you saved me from a witch who was chasing me with a butcher knife. Then you came to dinner with my family. You understood each person's insecurities and eccentricities, you handled our dysfunction with grace, and you knew exactly how to comfort me when I was criticized and hurt. You were perfect. But you did not love me. You pitied me.
I fear you pity me in real life. I see you looking at me, and I wonder what you are thinking. You are friendly to me. Most of the time. The more I get to know you, the more I realize that you are not the man of my dreams. I see that you are stubborn, picky, and controlling. I wonder if I can look past that or if I will pity you for your faults. You don't care about my opinion, though.
Please cease your nightly visits to my consciousness.
P.S. I hope you are reading this and wondering if I am talking about you. I hope it haunts you the way you haunt me. But it won't.
Current song: "Leaving New York," R.E.M.