I love you because I would be devastated if someone else got to have you. I would race from both ends of my devastation like a worried dog, pacing the space you left and wondering who was holding you against them at night. I would die that way, at the bottom of a ten hundred foot hole I wore into the ground from wanting you. I love you jealously and with a fever that boils on the surface of my skin like water in hot oil. Loving you feels like racing to the top of a mountain—pointless but an exhilarating accomplishment. I read once that we love the way we want to be loved, and until I met you I didn’t understand, because before you I had never really loved before.