I'll admit that when we met, I liked you more than I should have. That I went home and dreamed of seeing you in every mirror in my childhood home. That I felt your hands on my back as I danced to Billy Joel, alone in my living room, and imagined you with me.

Gold-trimmed dresses and lace-up boots have never quite been the same since you stood up on the table and Pasodobled to the beat of the music, and I felt like I wanted to be with you, to be you, you.

I crossed my heart and hoped to die, slit my palms and swore, another one-sided blood pact that you'd never know to keep and I'd never know to tell. A vow in sickness and in health, til-death-do-us-part, even though I know you weren't what I wanted you to be – a dream, a dance, a drug.

When we met, I liked you more than I should have. The scars on my palm barely healed from last time, fingerprints still on the knife. A promethean cycle, doomed to start again and again as I reach for that which is not mine and cry in surprise when I burn.

So I'll admit that when we met, I liked you more than I should have. But still, I got on the table and twirled with you until the world span out of control.