This is more than just sorrow.

I do still like him. At least I can admit that to myself. It's not as bad as it was, but it's still here, still present in my veins like an incurable blood disease. His cancerous passes and malignant half-glances have left me hospitalized and unseen. This stream of thought is as deadly as any lost nepenthe but I'd rather have the latter. It's disgusting that I'm not lusting after him but waiting patiently, clumsily, for his approval. And I think I always will be. The problem is simple. He likes girls, man-hoodies, tennis, planes, trains, and automobiles...and I like him.