"Dear You,
Today my pen stopped working, and I finally got the courage to write how I feel about you. I checked three times to make sure it really had stopped working, scribbling inklessly across pages and pages, ensuring it wouldn't betray me with ink at the last moment. It didn't work, and the haunting (evocative? beautiful?) music played on, and it really was too dramatic a moment to pass by, and so I wrote. I wrote that I loved you, and that I was a fool, and I wondered to the still-blank sheet why I must be like this. I wrote that you were beautiful, and I was not, but it would be the same even if it was any other way, if I was beautiful and you were not, or we both were, or we both were not- because I would still be in love, and you would not. The sheet listened, oh it listened like you never could, absorbing every word, and leaving just enough of an impression to show it was listening, and I wrote everything, I said it all. And then I rubbed the sheet out gently, rubbed out every indention of my emotions, rubbed till my hand was warm and the paper was smooth and every slightest trace of my love gone.
Today my pen stopped working, and I finally got the courage to write how I feel about you. I checked three times to make sure it really had stopped working, scribbling inklessly across pages and pages, ensuring it wouldn't betray me with ink at the last moment. It didn't work, and the haunting (evocative? beautiful?) music played on, and it really was too dramatic a moment to pass by, and so I wrote. I wrote that I loved you, and that I was a fool, and I wondered to the still-blank sheet why I must be like this. I wrote that you were beautiful, and I was not, but it would be the same even if it was any other way, if I was beautiful and you were not, or we both were, or we both were not- because I would still be in love, and you would not. The sheet listened, oh it listened like you never could, absorbing every word, and leaving just enough of an impression to show it was listening, and I wrote everything, I said it all. And then I rubbed the sheet out gently, rubbed out every indention of my emotions, rubbed till my hand was warm and the paper was smooth and every slightest trace of my love gone.
And now I've confessed all I felt, and all I'm left with is a blank sheet and a pen which does not work.
Me."
*sniff*
ReplyDeleteI doesn't has teary eyes. I has allergies. g'way.
*quietly hands tissue and goes away*
ReplyDelete