A Love Letter

Hey you!

You asked me out for coffee and I said no. I think you got offended when I said no. Please let me explain my situation to you. I said no because I am too shy. I said no, not because I don’t like you, but because I am scared of my feelings for you. I am scared of not being good enough. I am scared of doing something embarrassing. I am scared of how you remind me of home; a home I never knew could exist. I say no because I am terrified to take my heart out of that steel cage I buried it in a few decades ago. I am terrified because lately I wear a stupid grin on my face everywhere I go. I think people are starting to notice. It frights the living shit out of me that now my mind aimlessly wanders to you. I would be sitting there in the middle of a test about genetics and instead of thinking about the phenotypic ratio of the peas; I would start thinking about your beautiful smile that reveals your crooked teeth. Damn it. I don’t want to think about the fullness of your lips and how mind-shattering it would be to kiss them while I’m talking to my dad about Obama’s presidency. You are living in every part of my brain and it pains me to think that I have no lucid thought left anymore.

It doesn’t make sense, you see. People say that when two people are in love, they’re good for each other. You are no good for me. I can’t write something without writing about you. I can’t eat without wondering whether you’ve eaten something too. I can’t go to bed without looking at the stars outside, pondering whether there is someone out there who wanted our stars to cross just one damned time. I take a shower and start humming a cheesy love song thinking about you. Shit, see? This is another piece of writing that you have taken over. Don’t you see how you have taken over my life?

It sickens me that my thoughts begin and end with you. My dreams? Let me tell you what a joke they are now. My dreams are promising me that we will have a small house in the suburbs of a big cold city. My dreams tell me that I’ll have a small living room with walls covered with bookshelves. There will be warm fire burning in the fire place. A love seat right in front of it. We will be sitting on that love seat, your arms around me and we will be talking about life. Shit, I don’t even know what’s wrong with me that’s how much of a goner I am.

You know, I used to be able to sit down and write satires full of angst. I used to write fiction. Words would just pour out of my head on a piece of paper and they were filled with rage. The anger in those words could kindle a fire big enough to burn every single forest in this world. But now, I can’t fucking write a piece without mentioning you in it. You know why that scares me? Because I read somewhere that a writer loves you if they write about you. I have not been able to write about anything but you.

You see why I am terrified? Because I might have fallen in love with you.