This is inevitable.

In the words of Alanis, "I believe that one and one
make two."

You and I aren't two, so much as we're one and a
half, and I'm struggling to make you believe I'm
something more than an angsty mess.

We met on the corner of 'Complicated' and 'Wrong',
which is far more true than it is poetic, but there
is a coffee shop two blocks down with the most perfect
iced tea and a window for watching the world turn.

We bonded over our love for love and our neutrality
towards one another, though even with our differing
tastes in music and your terrible choice in hats,
I'll continue preaching friendly indifference, if
only to keep your sanity intact.

I've always dreamed of loving an artist, or at least
making love to one, because these feeble hands could
never fully capture this world's beauty, and I expect
something to come from living so unselfishly.

Sometimes you make me feel like being on top of the world,
but that's mostly a clever innuendo designed to make you
consider the possibility and appreciate my way with words.

You and I are tortured souls (just like everyone else), though
I take more interest in your well-being than I do my own,
so forgive me if this sounds cliche:

I've never been very good with promises, but someday, I'll take
you to that little shop. Then, we'll have coffee, on me.

You told me nothing was inevitable.
You're wrong.