A couple months ago I wrote an article about an "Almost Lover"—about how saying goodbye to someone that never really cared for you would be the most gratifying experience. It would save you heartache and a couple pounds from copious amounts of ice cream binging. Let me be upfront here—upfront and 100 percent raw.

I am so full of bullsh!t. I convinced you all—my family, my friends and my readers—that I was happy moving on from my “Almost Lover.” Well, you see here, moving on from an “almost” lover would be doable; maybe dare I say it, easy. But there is no “almost” about my feelings toward this man; there is no “almost” in the connection I feel when we lie next to each other and there is no “almost” in the sureness of his arms as they pull me into his chest. The easiness in how we talk, in how we laugh, in how we poke fun at each other is nowhere near almost.

Almost lover? I don’t have an almost lover. I have an unrequited commitment, an unrequited love. How we feel about each other has never been the issue, but making those feelings public and monogamous is where we differ. That’s where I dubbed you my “almost lover," because I wanted so badly to be your one and your only, and you just wanted me to be your occasional, your secret.

And where I want to kick myself is that I don’t care. I know that you don’t want me to be your “girlfriend.” I know you are perfectly content with us just hooking up once or twice a week, and I don’t care. I still want—no, I crave and I need those hours with you and that closeness that I feel when we are in one space. Maybe I don’t think of myself that highly or I really just love you that much. But I care about you so much that I will gladly take the once a week face to face and body to body contact. I just want to pull a Meredith and say, “Pick me, Love me, Choose me.”

I am what you want.

I am what you need.

I just wish you would understand that.

I love your eyes. I love how they don’t “light up” but they grow so warm looking at me. When I can feel you looking at me from the corner of my eyes as we watch Netflix, I actually feel warmer. Is that crazy? Those beautiful hazel eyes entrance me. You entrance me.

I love your smile. I may have the most awkward close-mouthed smile known to man, but yours is captivating. When we talked on the phone, I could literally hear when you smiled, and it made me go crazy. But you don't call me anymore. When you actually flash that grin full of teeth, I smile because it makes me so happy. I have never seen a smile as beautiful as yours when you are genuinely happy.

I love your hands. Is that weird? I mean, physically, yes, they are good-looking hands. But I love how your hands wrap around my waist and grab me so firmly and gently all at once. I love how they take my hands in yours; how they trail down my stomach, how your hands pull yourself into me. I love your hands for how they touch me and how they make me feel like another human has never even given me so much as a handshake.

I love your laugh. I love how it starts so quietly and builds to…well still quiet. But it’s beautiful. It’s a full-bodied, genuine laugh that can make me smile even when I’m so mad. The sound of your laugh appears in my dreams often and there is nothing “almost” about that fact.

I love your sense of humor. If I could count the number of times I have laughed out loud from your jokes. If I could convince you I am the one for you by the number of times I have made you laugh, we would be together. And I don’t mean the fake “ha-ha” laugh, I mean that deep laugh that warms your belly.

I guess…what I am trying to say, is that I love you. I love your good traits, your bad traits, your quirks and your talents. I love every part of you—the good, the bad and the crazy.