Remember that time I made a drunken pass at you on facebook?

When I told you that you were the sexiest woman in that class we took together?

Well, I still feel bad about it.

In part, I feel like I never should have done it. You really don’t deserve to be harassed like that just because you’ve got some alluring curves. I’m sure you’re somewhat used to it, but that in no way excuses or mitigates my behaviour.

I’m a bit of a dirtbag.

But I’ve had some cause to reconsider this exchange over the last couple weeks, and my biggest regret is not doing a better job of justifying why I felt that you were—and are—so goddamn smokin’ hot.

You’ve got a lot going for you.

But it’s your apex confidence that dominates it all.

Seductive, sensual excitement bleeds out of you.

Intoxicatingly.

Infectiously.

Invasively.

Indulgently.

Indisputably.

I could almost get lost in it. But we’re clearly different, you and I.

As much as I’d love to ignore that, I’m pretty sure we could never be as real as you.