Dear Connor,

I'm sorry but I can't do this. You sit so close but I'm looking past you. Masculine, quiet and thoughtful you sit beside me and make me laugh. Imagination is my curse, he makes it go wild, I shouldn't have to turn it on. It's my curse and you make me turn it on?! Even so it's not the same. I stop, I shudder, I sigh. Blue eyes, strong hands, honourable but I'm stuck at your chest. I long to be held against it, in your arms as I weep like a scene in a harlequin romance. I weep for him though. Not even your lips satisfy my wild imagination and his make my blood boil. His cocky swagger is aggravating but mesmerizing and your nonchalant stroll may be growing on me but it hardly haunts my dreams at night. You see, he's my habbit, my cigarette, my obsession and he has been for so long, too long, there's no going back. He tore a hole in my heart and now everything drips out the bottom, including your unfeigned smiles and attentiveness. I can't do this to you. You should stay away. Can't you see I'm just using you? You're just a pawn in an addict's game. Every smile, every laugh, every touch is just in hopes that he might catch a glimpse and suffer even a second of what I suffer ever everyday. It's a falling sensation as your heart pounds and sends concrete through your veins. Your brain is wrung like a sponge as your eyes fog. I can't do this.
With Love,
Sarah