Post by Sparks on Mar 16, 2008 19:06:00 GMT -8
Dear you:
Why do you always sell yourself a mile short? I can’t believe I’ve known you for so long.
You turn my sentences into piles of alpha-bits. You still make me shiver all over. It is awfully hard to look anywhere else, and just as hard to look directly at you. And I have felt the same way about you since I met you. I’ve been in and out of a relationship since then. I ended it with the muted realization that I would not feel for him even a fraction of the things I feel for you. When we hang out once every few months, I make mental notes about how you look, hoping I don’t forget. Hugs in greeting and parting make my chest ache. It’s almost harder seeing you than it is not seeing you.
You have the clearest blue eyes. I want to hold onto you and tell you every thought about you that has ever crossed my mind. I can’t believe this feeling exists. I can’t believe the decisions I am going to have to make in the next few months. It kills me to know I might never see you again, and I won’t even be able to tell you why or where I’ve gone. It’s hell to realize I have to give you up and begin another life somewhere else, with no mention of this one, all because of forces much bigger than either of us. I don’t know how I’ll go to sleep every night wondering where you are and how things could have been, and being unable to contact you or anybody from this life. The future looks horrible. I envy the past.
If I could ask for anything it would be one more kiss. I won’t be able to deal in emotions for a really long time after this, and I want you to know how strongly I still feel. How I have felt since the start. How I have tried to convince myself otherwise and failed consistently for two years. I’d like to apologize for my inability to admit this to you.
We’re still young and this kind of rapid-fire heartbeat would scare anybody our age, sure. I’m terrified. I wish I could become old and bitter with you. I’d be happy if we didn’t have the curse of these feelings so early on...but that’s life. It is hard as hell most of the time, but the compulsion to be so honestly selfless makes it worth it in a strange way; that is, if the weak-ribbed, nervous joy can be equated to anything in this world.
You make me a better person, and I really don't believe I'll ever meet anybody else like you. Artists have drawn magnificent paintings depicting this feeling, and writers have been penning what they can of it for thousands of years. It's humanity at its rawest and ripest. In me you found life and in you I found the same: neither of us could believe it then, and I cannot believe it still.
Sorry we will probably never get to have this conversation. Sorry I can’t bring you with me when I have to leave. Sorry for all the wondering you will do because of me. I’m so fucking sorry. I think I love you, really and honestly. Not love in the teenage sense of the term, or the staged love of popular films. It is sincere, entirely frightening, and warms every cubic inch of me when I realize it. It’s the feeling of being alive. It’s the moment you notice your own arteries are pumping or your own eyes are blinking. It is consciousness where there was, before, only a dull comatose buzz. I think I love you, and I’m sorry I will never speak a word of it.
All my love,
me, my whole self, every word
I have ever spoken and every kindness
I will ever put into the world.
Why do you always sell yourself a mile short? I can’t believe I’ve known you for so long.
You turn my sentences into piles of alpha-bits. You still make me shiver all over. It is awfully hard to look anywhere else, and just as hard to look directly at you. And I have felt the same way about you since I met you. I’ve been in and out of a relationship since then. I ended it with the muted realization that I would not feel for him even a fraction of the things I feel for you. When we hang out once every few months, I make mental notes about how you look, hoping I don’t forget. Hugs in greeting and parting make my chest ache. It’s almost harder seeing you than it is not seeing you.
You have the clearest blue eyes. I want to hold onto you and tell you every thought about you that has ever crossed my mind. I can’t believe this feeling exists. I can’t believe the decisions I am going to have to make in the next few months. It kills me to know I might never see you again, and I won’t even be able to tell you why or where I’ve gone. It’s hell to realize I have to give you up and begin another life somewhere else, with no mention of this one, all because of forces much bigger than either of us. I don’t know how I’ll go to sleep every night wondering where you are and how things could have been, and being unable to contact you or anybody from this life. The future looks horrible. I envy the past.
If I could ask for anything it would be one more kiss. I won’t be able to deal in emotions for a really long time after this, and I want you to know how strongly I still feel. How I have felt since the start. How I have tried to convince myself otherwise and failed consistently for two years. I’d like to apologize for my inability to admit this to you.
We’re still young and this kind of rapid-fire heartbeat would scare anybody our age, sure. I’m terrified. I wish I could become old and bitter with you. I’d be happy if we didn’t have the curse of these feelings so early on...but that’s life. It is hard as hell most of the time, but the compulsion to be so honestly selfless makes it worth it in a strange way; that is, if the weak-ribbed, nervous joy can be equated to anything in this world.
You make me a better person, and I really don't believe I'll ever meet anybody else like you. Artists have drawn magnificent paintings depicting this feeling, and writers have been penning what they can of it for thousands of years. It's humanity at its rawest and ripest. In me you found life and in you I found the same: neither of us could believe it then, and I cannot believe it still.
Sorry we will probably never get to have this conversation. Sorry I can’t bring you with me when I have to leave. Sorry for all the wondering you will do because of me. I’m so fucking sorry. I think I love you, really and honestly. Not love in the teenage sense of the term, or the staged love of popular films. It is sincere, entirely frightening, and warms every cubic inch of me when I realize it. It’s the feeling of being alive. It’s the moment you notice your own arteries are pumping or your own eyes are blinking. It is consciousness where there was, before, only a dull comatose buzz. I think I love you, and I’m sorry I will never speak a word of it.
All my love,
me, my whole self, every word
I have ever spoken and every kindness
I will ever put into the world.
