i am writing you this love letter because you deserve one. i met you at the worst yet perfect time-- for me. for eight months, i soaked my self-esteem with your admiration and never asked you to hold back. sometimes, i think karma is still raking away at my world for what i did-- or didn't-- feel for and say to you. but your niceness exhausted me. your compliments about my academic accomplishments or my hair accessories leached any available sentimentality out of my heart; i felt continuously taxed to return your praise and affection. so i did what i consider to be my second best skill: i shut down.
i can go on and on about the jerks i've met. you are not one of them-- not even close. you cooked me dinner with vegetables from your garden. you spent hours with me at the zoo so i could walk through the butterfly exhibit and painstakingly take photos of every. single. animal. you asked me thoughtful questions and listened to my answers. you embraced me so snugly, with seemingly endless arms and hands and wrists and biceps, that i think i know what it would be like to sleep next to an octopus. but i felt nothing for you. and you never asked or complained, which just made spending time at your mom's house or eating dinner with your roommate or watching you play with your chinchilla even more maddening for my heart.
dear x, you are the handsomest boy to ever don a suit vest with skinny jeans. but there's a difference between logic and feeling, reason and emotion, truth and love. someday i hope to pass by you relaxing on the patio of your favorite bistro, sitting across from a fashionable and intelligent heiress, dreaming up weekend adventures from books you've read with your hands entwined, like little cups holding sunsets and laughter from dances across your kitchen floor.
love,
a.
i'll tell you all my secrets if you stick around
the undercover lover's under the covers
No comments:
Post a Comment