I wrote a poem. It seems fair that you should suffer with me. It's out of embarrassment that I don't call it an "ode".
Every time you hid away, I thought so hard.
I came looking for you, offering all the things I'd done wrong: my thoughtlessness, my arrogance, my quick temper.
Perhaps, it was mostly I who corrupted reciprocity. I was so afraid of losing you.
My insight grew over time and my flaws multiplied. My ideal distilled into perfection.
It got harder to persuade you to come out and harder to find reasons why you should.
But selflessness didn't become me and infallibility looked awkward on you. When I noticed, my resentment started changing you.
I pursued you with less vigor. And then, when at last I stopped, I knew, I'd been right all this time: if I didn't come looking for you you'd be lost to me.