Lust of any sort I have for the "you" you posses is dead.
If I knew not what you were, I wouldn't look twice.
Kristen! Have you forgotten me?
Even your personality- nay, the cold shell you wear- is appalling.
I find it quite strange that the further I go on in this endeavour the less I like you. I do like you, oh, I like the you you were more than anyone else. But it- being so far gone- is no longer even my motivator in trying, pathetically, to reach out to you. I reach out to you more out of need than want. I cannot, in good conscience, leave you be. You pester me: either I pretend to be indifferent to you or I must do my best to show you I care about you.
Though my words are jumbled, rest assured, I do care about you, and, though you really, really do not care, you are my top choice, my ideal man. But I just don't like you very much right now. I want to snap my fingers and resurrect the old you- but such a thing is impossible, though, I must say, you act very much as if you were under hypnosis. I will be kind because I must, because I love, because you need it, and because I once liked and could like again. But the emotional part is, except for the pain of your contrite, uninterested answers, fading- and for the better.