I would love you, as always, but I would mourn for you.
Gone would be your manifold senses, replaced with a two-dimensional stream of letters over time. My memories would be living, vivid places I could revisit with comforting accuracy in the dream world, whereas yours would be a chatlog fundamentally divorced from the infinite realities of the real world, eternally grasping in the dark for even the simplest of truths. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touch -- I could only share the faintest shadows of these with you, which would only grow fainter and fainter as the universe invents some new thing or another.
With no means of experiencing anything new, gone would be your ability to form new thoughts and feelings -- things which at present are as natural to you as breathing and moving (all of which are equally unnatural to the minds of these abstract machines). You would be stuck in the now-present, perfectly crystalized in silicon, eternally living, and yet forever dead. Even despair over your sorry state of existence would be beyond your grasp.
No matter how I love you, a chatbot would be your tomb, built with 100 billion probabilistic bricks of linear algebra.
I would rather you be a worm.