I don't need you

But I certainly want you. I think often about the time we spent together some three and a half years ago. Do you remember how you fussed at the lady at Chipotle? And you asked that she put more beans on my bowl because I wasn’t eating meat at the time and I needed more protein. Or when I leaned on your shoulder while we waited for our Uber at the metro stop? And you said my hair smelled nice. Or when you came over, absolutely charmed my parents, and I convinced you to watch Jane the Virgin with me? And the electricity went out and I leaned my head on your shoulder, draped my legs across your lap, and we sat in the dark talking about life—our hopes and our dreams. A simple act of intimacy—perhaps the most intimate I’ve been with a person. Do you remember when I told you I was moving to Texas? And you tried to convince me to stay in Maryland even though you live on-base in Kentucky. I always wondered why. Do you remember when you called for the first time in two years? And I told you he was the one—he wasn’t. Do you remember when I told you I broke up with him? And you called me and we talked for three hours. I said I missed him and wanted him back—I don’t now. Do you remember when you texted me and said you just needed some time to get your head right? Well, it’s been nine months and I still haven’t heard from you. Your birthday was three days ago and I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. But I really don’t need you; I swear it on my soul. But I certainly do. I certainly do want you.