You are apples and cinnamon and the smell of fresh, crusty bread. I suppose those might be the same aromas you remember your mother's kitchen for, I think, but now those are the scents that remind me of you.

You are iced black coffee without sugar, to me. All this began with meeting you up at a cafe I was horrified to even set foot into, for all its hipster chic; and so it felt apt that I bought the same cold brew for you, from the same place I met you at, on the last day I saw you.

You are trippy David Lynch movies, and a surprisingly good singing voice, as you held my wrists down above my head to prevent me from hitting you in retaliation for tickling me, and tormented me with your rendition of Blue Velvet; laughing at my horror at how bizarre everything - both on-screen and off- was.

You are... laughter. So much laughter at my expense. So much laughter shared. I wouldn't have guessed, on that first meeting, when I stared at you, and got even more intimidated by that intense unflinching gaze, that we would mellow into this comfortable arrangement of trading banter and easy chuckles.

And there's nudging you, asking you repeatedly, "Are you OK? Why do you look so angry? Why are you SO angry?" because I know that's precisely the opposite of the emotion you're actually feeling, and I enjoy getting a rise out of you, as irritation creeps into your voice as you try to explain your resting bitch face. Haha.

You are the occasional French words and phrases in the conversations I so enjoy because they are so concisely-stated, almost-formal in your preciseness, your ideas always so beautifully expressed.

You are in turns aloof and preoccupied for most part of a busy day, and then uncaring and cruel in the evening, and then smothering affection the morning after; and there's the unexpected kindness of you carefully checking me for injury, especially for the wounds that cut deeper, into the heart.

"I hope I did not freak you out too much, last night."

No, you didn't. I like you most when you think yourself most detrimental to my safety. We both know that it was all the dark things and the ugly inside of you that drew me to you. They complement my desires.

You are nothing I expected, and everything I've ever wanted, even the things I never thought I would care for.

I still don't think this is love, but I'm feeling emotions I never thought I would experience again, and I was almost a little bit afraid, last month, when I left you standing there - staunchly refusing to look back at you, because you were leaving forever.

Yet I somehow know, I will see you again.

And even if I don't, word-smith, I got precisely what I wished for.

You wrote me into not one, not two, but quite a few of your stories.

Thank you, old man. =)