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Description
    These poems I've written in my love for her,
    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply…

    During the first year, I was reckless. I don't know what really compelled me to write poems for her, but I went ahead and did so anyways. I wrote a poem for her each and every day without fail, and at the time I wasn't exactly proud of where all my free time was going towards.

    On the envelope of single poem that I’d handwritten in pink pen, I’d licked the same style of stamp I know that she likes, sending her my heart's spit. And I’d sealed each envelope with a tiny, pink, heart-shaped sticker before putting the poem where it belonged.

    I remember in one specific poem I wrote during the first of the fifteen years, I had described how much she could and would bright up someone's day. And in this particular poem, I had written: 'Whenever you close your eyes and fall asleep, there are an infinite amount of people that also fall asleep, dreaming of you.'

    I don't know what came to mind when I thought up that brilliant sentence, but I’m fairly certain that I was in the midst of daydreaming about her beautiful, [h/c] hair and breathtaking [e/c] eyes. The way her glorious, silky hair would flow in the gentle autumn breeze; the way her sparkling, eccentric eyes would bright up at the little mention of ice-cream...both these things and much, much more were wavering in my mind at the thought of this sentence.

    I was as reckless in the second year as I was the first. I would be so entranced in writing that one time I didn't even notice Antonio 'accidentally' set my house on fire whilst my parents were out; in fact, I had only really noticed when the smoke detector started going off, which happened to be when I saw that irritating Spanish brunette mimic my perfectly-normal eyebrows with three fingers in the very corner of my eye. By the time I had realised that my house was in fact glistening with orangey-red flames, all my clothes were burnt from my feet upwards, leaving only my collar.

    Despite all this, my poem for her was safe and sound in my hands, nestled in its envelope, ready for it to be put in its place.

    When I reached the third year, I’d somewhat calmed down, only writing poems for her every two or three days. But even in my one to two-day breaks, my love for her still shone brightly, and every time I had put my pink pen to white paper, those very thoughts would convert from mere ideas into powerful sentences and words in the form of poems. I reached the limits of literature at only eighteen; quite a feat, don't you agree?

    Also in the third year, I started a Mixi journal, where I published my poems for her online. I was pretty overwhelmed at the fact that in the first eight to twelve months of its creation, my Mixi friends list was maxed out. I gained fans from all ages, ranging from love-struck twelve-year-old girls, to thirty-year-old women who have given up on finding their true love, and instead took comfort in my works. I often laughed at their emotional and relatable comments on my literature pieces, and frequently held livestreams where they would join in and help me write a poem, each with their own lover or crush in mind.

    Of course, [F/n] was the only one who consumed my thoughts.

    In the fourth year, I decided to create a compilation of some of my better works - both new and old - and submit them to various magazines. Some were right off the bat against the idea of putting my 'sappy and over-exaggeratedly cheesy' romanticist poems in their top-notch magazines; on the other hand, there were the companies that simply enjoyed my writing and almost immediately accepted them. There were a total of three major magazines that allowed me to write three poems per month to put featured in a column of my own, called 'The Creations of Arthur Kirkland', 'The Ideas of Arthur Kirkland's Love', and 'Little Bits of Romance With Arthur Kirkland'. Unfortunately, none of them would let me change the daggy names of my columns, so I had to stick with the lame ones they had given me. After I had been accepted into these three companies, I quit my job as a snooze-worthy salary man, and instead made fun of them in my poems – but in a romantic way, of course.

    Of course I was – and am – very proud of these jobs, the fame never really got to my head. [F/n] never left my mind – not even once – and the very thought of her would very easily plague my mind, making me lose all sense of what I was doing.

    These poems I've written in my love for her,

    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply...

    When I turned twenty in the fifth year, I was dubbed a professional poet. I was so happy and proud! I finally surpassed Francis and Alfred, who were both my idols – though I would never admit that – and rivals when it came to the poetical world. After my fourteenth month with those three magazine companies I worked for, both my columns and I grew especially popular with ladies aged twenty to thirty-two. Some would compliment my writing style; some my poems themselves; some my ideas; some the lucky girl I was thinking of when I made those poems. Many wrote fan mail and letters addressed to me saying that they oh so dearly wished that they were that 'lucky girl' and that they 'loved' me, and although that was very, very nice and sweet of them, I pushed those fangirls away from my mind and popped [F/n] in their place instead.

    However, as at the time I was so stuck-up and earnest, I only really viewed and perceived those fans of mine as wilted flowers and daikon. Not that I thought about [F/n] in that way, of course!

    In the beginning of the sixth year, I noticed that my health had slowly started to decrease, little by little. I constantly had a stiff neck, and my knuckles would sometimes ache. In late March, I somehow managed to break my left wrist – which thankfully wasn't the side I used to write with – and in early May I fractured my right ankle. My asthma worsened, and migraines would attack me about every month or so without any warning. I had to admit that I wasn't in good shape; no, I was worse than that. There wasn't a bone that hadn't been broken nor an organ that hadn't been damaged by the end of that year.

    Alas, I continued to write, and that was only because of [F/n]. Somewhere in September, the number of total poems I’d written exceeded two thousand. I received many thanks and congratulations from the magazine companies and other close family friends.

    Once I arrived at the seventh year, my body magically restored itself to its normal, healthy state – if not, better! I even turned into a bit of a morning person and got up at about six in the morning to brainstorm some faint ideas for the next poem I'd write.

    'What should I compare [F/n] to today?' I would think. Maybe one day she'd be the star of a metaphor about extreme ironing; another a simile centering a complex inner product space. Comparisons and random thoughts and other junk would clump together in my brain, but somehow, I'd make it all work, and in the end, it would always be concerning [F/n].

    The eighth year hit me and I turned twenty-three. Not much had changed in me from the seventh to the eighth; I was still rapidly thinking about [F/n] day in, day out; I was still writing those poems for those three magazines; I was still gaining fans every single day. I would still wake up in the crisp and fresh hours of the morning; I would still think to myself, 'What should I compare (F/n) to today?' I would still write poems for and about her every few days. I would still write every single poem in pink pen; I would still lick every stamp with insistence; I would still seal those white envelopes with pink heart-shaped stickers; I would still place those poems in their special place.

    One day, I would compare her to the strength and perseverance to a sumo wrestler one step away from the major league; another she would be compared to the hidden strength and beauty of an AMPA glutamate receptor. I could and would write about [F/n] in any way, shape, or form, and it would still be considered as 'inspiring' and 'motivational'.

    Really, nothing much changed between the seventh and eighth years, but I can tell you one thing for sure: my love for [F/n] was never once faltered or questioned, and never will.

    These poems I've written in my love for her,

    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply...

    When the ninth year arrived, I was rushed to hospital because of an accident I had gotten myself into. Apparently Francis, Alfred, Matthew, and I were all heading home from the bar and I was the 'designated driver', so I didn't drink anything at all that night. Unfortunately, Alfred was the one up in the front seat next to me, and I remember him knocking me over so that I lost control of our car and hit a pole. Anything before or after that, I couldn't quite remember. The nurses kindly informed me that my head had hit the steering wheel so hard that I had lost most of my memories.

    Of course, I was completely devastated as well as extremely confused, but there was only one little thing I managed to remember, and that was my love for her: [F/n] [L/n]. But the thing is, that's the only thing I remembered about her: I couldn't put my finger on her face, her voice, her personality, or anything about her...except for her beautiful name and the fact that I loved her.

    The tenth and eleventh years passed by, much to my irritation. None of my memories about [F/n] came back to me, no matter how much I wanted them to. Nevertheless, I still loved her, and I continued to write poems for and about her, with a pink pen and heart-shaped stickers. No matter how frustrating it got, I vowed to stay strong 'till the end, for I figured that I would eventually meet up with her and see the love and light of my life once more. I merely wanted a reply from all those poems I had written. I would always think to myself, 'Why am I writing these poems, again?' But of course, I'd come up with no sort of rational answer

    In the twelfth and thirteenth years, my memories still hadn't returned, and that made me want to pluck out the hair on my eyebrows to no end! Even though my love for her was endless, my patience wasn't, and I was on the verge of tears every night, in hopes that she would somehow weave her way into a dream of mine, so that she could give me a reply to all of those poems I had written with so much love, tenderness, and care for her.

    Those two years passed by very, very slowly, and by the time the fourteen year hit me, I felt so scared and so uneasy. I just wanted to see her; I wanted to hear her voice; I wanted her once more. Nothing; nobody could satiate my longing and hope for her – not even my hundreds of worldwide fangirls. They said they felt sympathetic for me, and that they 'understood what I was going through'; in reality, they probably didn't know Jack squat about my situation! They didn't know; they didn't understand my pain, my hurting. They didn't understand my longing for [F/n]

    The fifteenth year had finally arrived, and I didn't know if I was ready for what was about to hit me.

    Somewhere in September, I was sitting around, brainstorming ideas of what my next poem about her should be about. I had been enjoying that Saturday, actually; the fireplace was going, and my tea had been brewed perfectly by Francis. Overall, I was minding my own business, when the truth had hit me.

    Everything came flooding back to me; all of my memories of my past and the poems; the night of the crash; and most of all...her. I don't know if you understand how much I cried that night; I was in so much pain and agony that I didn't know what else to do! Because I had finally started to remember; remember the harsh reality that...

    [F/n] [L/n] died fifteen years ago.

    For sixteen years, I've been sending love poems to her.

    And yet, I haven't received a reply...

    I haven't received a reply.

Description
    These poems I've written in my love for her,
    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply…

    During the first year, I was reckless. I don't know what really compelled me to write poems for her, but I went ahead and did so anyways. I wrote a poem for her each and every day without fail, and at the time I wasn't exactly proud of where all my free time was going towards.

    On the envelope of single poem that I’d handwritten in pink pen, I’d licked the same style of stamp I know that she likes, sending her my heart's spit. And I’d sealed each envelope with a tiny, pink, heart-shaped sticker before putting the poem where it belonged.

    I remember in one specific poem I wrote during the first of the fifteen years, I had described how much she could and would bright up someone's day. And in this particular poem, I had written: 'Whenever you close your eyes and fall asleep, there are an infinite amount of people that also fall asleep, dreaming of you.'

    I don't know what came to mind when I thought up that brilliant sentence, but I’m fairly certain that I was in the midst of daydreaming about her beautiful, [h/c] hair and breathtaking [e/c] eyes. The way her glorious, silky hair would flow in the gentle autumn breeze; the way her sparkling, eccentric eyes would bright up at the little mention of ice-cream...both these things and much, much more were wavering in my mind at the thought of this sentence.

    I was as reckless in the second year as I was the first. I would be so entranced in writing that one time I didn't even notice Antonio 'accidentally' set my house on fire whilst my parents were out; in fact, I had only really noticed when the smoke detector started going off, which happened to be when I saw that irritating Spanish brunette mimic my perfectly-normal eyebrows with three fingers in the very corner of my eye. By the time I had realised that my house was in fact glistening with orangey-red flames, all my clothes were burnt from my feet upwards, leaving only my collar.

    Despite all this, my poem for her was safe and sound in my hands, nestled in its envelope, ready for it to be put in its place.

    When I reached the third year, I’d somewhat calmed down, only writing poems for her every two or three days. But even in my one to two-day breaks, my love for her still shone brightly, and every time I had put my pink pen to white paper, those very thoughts would convert from mere ideas into powerful sentences and words in the form of poems. I reached the limits of literature at only eighteen; quite a feat, don't you agree?

    Also in the third year, I started a Mixi journal, where I published my poems for her online. I was pretty overwhelmed at the fact that in the first eight to twelve months of its creation, my Mixi friends list was maxed out. I gained fans from all ages, ranging from love-struck twelve-year-old girls, to thirty-year-old women who have given up on finding their true love, and instead took comfort in my works. I often laughed at their emotional and relatable comments on my literature pieces, and frequently held livestreams where they would join in and help me write a poem, each with their own lover or crush in mind.

    Of course, [F/n] was the only one who consumed my thoughts.

    In the fourth year, I decided to create a compilation of some of my better works - both new and old - and submit them to various magazines. Some were right off the bat against the idea of putting my 'sappy and over-exaggeratedly cheesy' romanticist poems in their top-notch magazines; on the other hand, there were the companies that simply enjoyed my writing and almost immediately accepted them. There were a total of three major magazines that allowed me to write three poems per month to put featured in a column of my own, called 'The Creations of Arthur Kirkland', 'The Ideas of Arthur Kirkland's Love', and 'Little Bits of Romance With Arthur Kirkland'. Unfortunately, none of them would let me change the daggy names of my columns, so I had to stick with the lame ones they had given me. After I had been accepted into these three companies, I quit my job as a snooze-worthy salary man, and instead made fun of them in my poems – but in a romantic way, of course.

    Of course I was – and am – very proud of these jobs, the fame never really got to my head. [F/n] never left my mind – not even once – and the very thought of her would very easily plague my mind, making me lose all sense of what I was doing.

    These poems I've written in my love for her,

    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply...

    When I turned twenty in the fifth year, I was dubbed a professional poet. I was so happy and proud! I finally surpassed Francis and Alfred, who were both my idols – though I would never admit that – and rivals when it came to the poetical world. After my fourteenth month with those three magazine companies I worked for, both my columns and I grew especially popular with ladies aged twenty to thirty-two. Some would compliment my writing style; some my poems themselves; some my ideas; some the lucky girl I was thinking of when I made those poems. Many wrote fan mail and letters addressed to me saying that they oh so dearly wished that they were that 'lucky girl' and that they 'loved' me, and although that was very, very nice and sweet of them, I pushed those fangirls away from my mind and popped [F/n] in their place instead.

    However, as at the time I was so stuck-up and earnest, I only really viewed and perceived those fans of mine as wilted flowers and daikon. Not that I thought about [F/n] in that way, of course!

    In the beginning of the sixth year, I noticed that my health had slowly started to decrease, little by little. I constantly had a stiff neck, and my knuckles would sometimes ache. In late March, I somehow managed to break my left wrist – which thankfully wasn't the side I used to write with – and in early May I fractured my right ankle. My asthma worsened, and migraines would attack me about every month or so without any warning. I had to admit that I wasn't in good shape; no, I was worse than that. There wasn't a bone that hadn't been broken nor an organ that hadn't been damaged by the end of that year.

    Alas, I continued to write, and that was only because of [F/n]. Somewhere in September, the number of total poems I’d written exceeded two thousand. I received many thanks and congratulations from the magazine companies and other close family friends.

    Once I arrived at the seventh year, my body magically restored itself to its normal, healthy state – if not, better! I even turned into a bit of a morning person and got up at about six in the morning to brainstorm some faint ideas for the next poem I'd write.

    'What should I compare [F/n] to today?' I would think. Maybe one day she'd be the star of a metaphor about extreme ironing; another a simile centering a complex inner product space. Comparisons and random thoughts and other junk would clump together in my brain, but somehow, I'd make it all work, and in the end, it would always be concerning [F/n].

    The eighth year hit me and I turned twenty-three. Not much had changed in me from the seventh to the eighth; I was still rapidly thinking about [F/n] day in, day out; I was still writing those poems for those three magazines; I was still gaining fans every single day. I would still wake up in the crisp and fresh hours of the morning; I would still think to myself, 'What should I compare (F/n) to today?' I would still write poems for and about her every few days. I would still write every single poem in pink pen; I would still lick every stamp with insistence; I would still seal those white envelopes with pink heart-shaped stickers; I would still place those poems in their special place.

    One day, I would compare her to the strength and perseverance to a sumo wrestler one step away from the major league; another she would be compared to the hidden strength and beauty of an AMPA glutamate receptor. I could and would write about [F/n] in any way, shape, or form, and it would still be considered as 'inspiring' and 'motivational'.

    Really, nothing much changed between the seventh and eighth years, but I can tell you one thing for sure: my love for [F/n] was never once faltered or questioned, and never will.

    These poems I've written in my love for her,

    I've been sending for fifteen years straight.

    And yet, there is still no reply.

    There's still no reply...

    When the ninth year arrived, I was rushed to hospital because of an accident I had gotten myself into. Apparently Francis, Alfred, Matthew, and I were all heading home from the bar and I was the 'designated driver', so I didn't drink anything at all that night. Unfortunately, Alfred was the one up in the front seat next to me, and I remember him knocking me over so that I lost control of our car and hit a pole. Anything before or after that, I couldn't quite remember. The nurses kindly informed me that my head had hit the steering wheel so hard that I had lost most of my memories.

    Of course, I was completely devastated as well as extremely confused, but there was only one little thing I managed to remember, and that was my love for her: [F/n] [L/n]. But the thing is, that's the only thing I remembered about her: I couldn't put my finger on her face, her voice, her personality, or anything about her...except for her beautiful name and the fact that I loved her.

    The tenth and eleventh years passed by, much to my irritation. None of my memories about [F/n] came back to me, no matter how much I wanted them to. Nevertheless, I still loved her, and I continued to write poems for and about her, with a pink pen and heart-shaped stickers. No matter how frustrating it got, I vowed to stay strong 'till the end, for I figured that I would eventually meet up with her and see the love and light of my life once more. I merely wanted a reply from all those poems I had written. I would always think to myself, 'Why am I writing these poems, again?' But of course, I'd come up with no sort of rational answer

    In the twelfth and thirteenth years, my memories still hadn't returned, and that made me want to pluck out the hair on my eyebrows to no end! Even though my love for her was endless, my patience wasn't, and I was on the verge of tears every night, in hopes that she would somehow weave her way into a dream of mine, so that she could give me a reply to all of those poems I had written with so much love, tenderness, and care for her.

    Those two years passed by very, very slowly, and by the time the fourteen year hit me, I felt so scared and so uneasy. I just wanted to see her; I wanted to hear her voice; I wanted her once more. Nothing; nobody could satiate my longing and hope for her – not even my hundreds of worldwide fangirls. They said they felt sympathetic for me, and that they 'understood what I was going through'; in reality, they probably didn't know Jack squat about my situation! They didn't know; they didn't understand my pain, my hurting. They didn't understand my longing for [F/n]

    The fifteenth year had finally arrived, and I didn't know if I was ready for what was about to hit me.

    Somewhere in September, I was sitting around, brainstorming ideas of what my next poem about her should be about. I had been enjoying that Saturday, actually; the fireplace was going, and my tea had been brewed perfectly by Francis. Overall, I was minding my own business, when the truth had hit me.

    Everything came flooding back to me; all of my memories of my past and the poems; the night of the crash; and most of all...her. I don't know if you understand how much I cried that night; I was in so much pain and agony that I didn't know what else to do! Because I had finally started to remember; remember the harsh reality that...

    [F/n] [L/n] died fifteen years ago.

    For sixteen years, I've been sending love poems to her.

    And yet, I haven't received a reply...

    I haven't received a reply.