You made it seem like our friendship had an expiration date.

Like she would swoop in, and I'd come second fiddle.

Like our bond was a placeholder for the real love of your life.

To you, love meant romance.

To me, love was you: 

a sacred dance between souls,

a silent symphony woven through our spirits.

To me, love was friendship:

the inside jokes,

the laughter, the tears,

the unwavering belief that we would always find our way back to each other.

We weren't engaging in coitus—no.

Our love didn’t require a charged touch to be emotionally charged.

But it was not enough for you.

What we had was not enough.

How we were was not enough.

You let the world dictate how much you were allowed to love me.

"The fear you feel if your partner is a hunter is different from the fear you feel if your friend is a hunter,"

or so you said.

As if she could ever mean more to you than I did.

I wish I could hate you.

I wish I could look you in the eye and choose romance over us.

But I could never.

I wish I could despise you,

say "fuck it,"

and walk away.

Alas, you have me in a chokehold.

I engraved you in my heart and mind;

you penciled me in with your breath.

I thought we were on the same wavelength.

I know now I would always come second, or third, or fourth - 

never bonded by blood or ring,

our connection invisible, intangible,

meaningless to the world beyond us.

And so, when The One sashayed into your life,

you stopped calling as much

because what would people say,

if they thought you loved me more than her?

When The One catwalked into your existence,

you stopped leaning on me.

She was in the car of life with you;

I was only cruising alongside,

close, but never close enough.

I hope you realize how much I love you

because not all soulmates bear the title of lover.

And I hope you realize how I've come to see you:

No longer as my best friend but as a person who let the world dictate to him.