Dear You
There are a great number of cliches floating around that one could use to describe the relationship (or lack thereof) that I share with you. All of them are correct and meaningful, but it seems to me that I will do you the most justice by refraining from using someone else's love story to tell mine.
Right now, you aren't in love me with me. You are unsure if you ever will be. You are a fan of classical romance, and you read and watch deeply into Pride and Prejudice. I think you long for a lover, but do not know exactly how to obtain the kind you want. You are especially unsure if I can satisfy that longing, I think. You don't think we are familiar enough. The thought of us as an 'us' has crossed your mind, but the butterflies I've given you are, to date, inadequate. You want more. You want them to last. You do not trust a crush.
I, on the other hand, am completely and irreversibly in love with you. It has nothing to do with how beautiful you are, even though no one I know stands up to you physically. If it had to do with looks, I could have forgotten you long ago. I have intentionally tried to forget you. It hurts to love you. I have wanted to be yours and to have you be mine. In the end, I'm just a guy, and you're just a girl. But I love you. I love you. I love you so much that everything in life is inadequate, just as I am to you. Nothing satisfies me, because nothing is comparable to the happiness I feel when you speak to me, darling. I am so proud, yet my love for you has humbled me to the state of a docile tulip. When you condescend to share with me your gorgeous smile, I fall apart with joy. It lights me up inside as bread offered to the starving, a miraculous child to the infertile, a sunrise to the irreparably blind. All the light in the world is contained within you, my sweet and lovely girl. Let it spill over into me, or let the blackness swallow me whole. Let me go insane. For I will not choose death. To the ill-fated lover death comes too easily. To me, death is a cop-out. After all my suffering, and all the love I feel, death would be a vile interruption. Nothing will stand in the way of my love until my mind is gone and my body is unresponsive and inoperable. Please, darling. Let me tell you. Let me hold you and love you. Let me share in your strength and wit. Shelter me with your brilliant gaze, and warm me with your kindness. Keep away the blackness, darling. I will be so indebted to you.
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