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Description
Dear --,

It's twelve in the morning. There's rain literally pouring outside and the only thing on television is an old musical. Singin' in the Rain to be exact. I've been thinking about you all night. It started this morning when I woke up to the twisting feeling in my stomach that told me I missed you. Then it was the on and off banter throughout the day, taunting me every hour that there was no reply. The feeling twisted it's way around my rib cage, wrapping each bone with a dark, warm poison that melted to the marrow of my bones, working towards my heart.

(Thanks for that, by the way.)

Not Love --,

Dear --,

Nothing really sparked it. I'm waxing on poetic and it never occurred to me that it didn't need a trigger. I honestly think it was everything you said. Each declaration, every laugh, every single fucking I love you tore down everything. And I don't use that word loosely. I was supposed to be bullet proof, seemingly indestructible. There wasn't supposed to be anything that could break through, especially not love.

(Don't worry about the collateral damage.)

Not Yet Love --,

Dear-- ,

This isn't going to be some epic admittance. There will be no romantic setting, no rain, sunset or breathless kisses. I don't see a falling out and then a rushing back into your arms like in the movies. I can't imagine anything that would mark me conventional. I'll call you, most likely waking you up from well deserved sleep or interrupting something you'll claim isn't as nearly as important as me and it will be just that and nothing else.

(Not really sorry to disappoint.)

Nearly Love --,

Dear --,

There is nothing beautiful about this. It's raw and unfinished and full of so many regrets I'll have to regret later. This is me, with the skin and bone peeled away, with artery and lung exposed for all to see. I've spent so many months steeling myself against something wonderful. This is my once-beating heart, pulled out from me for everyone; there is not a single lovely thing about it.

(Keep wishing you were here.)

Still Not Quite Love --,

Dear --,

I don't think I am really that lyrical; it's all a hoax. The love and the tender words are all a trap. I'm trying to convince you that I'm so difficult because I don't want to love. That I want to make everything sound like a song because the way it comes out of my own head is too broken up. You think I'm amazing but you're hopelessly fooled. It's unique but only because you haven't met anyone as screwed up as me.

(Hope you won't find another.)

No Love --,

Dear --,

It's a battle, a struggle, a war, a whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-call-what-we-have. It tears my mind inside out while slowly stitching my unbeknownst broken heart back together. It's the most amazing and terrible feeling I've ever had and I wish it could just end and last forever. I want this, I need this, I love this beautiful, epic, spectacular disaster. I want this, need this, love this moment before it washes away from me.

(I want you. I need you. I love you.)

Finally Love --,

Description
Dear --,

It's twelve in the morning. There's rain literally pouring outside and the only thing on television is an old musical. Singin' in the Rain to be exact. I've been thinking about you all night. It started this morning when I woke up to the twisting feeling in my stomach that told me I missed you. Then it was the on and off banter throughout the day, taunting me every hour that there was no reply. The feeling twisted it's way around my rib cage, wrapping each bone with a dark, warm poison that melted to the marrow of my bones, working towards my heart.

(Thanks for that, by the way.)

Not Love --,

Dear --,

Nothing really sparked it. I'm waxing on poetic and it never occurred to me that it didn't need a trigger. I honestly think it was everything you said. Each declaration, every laugh, every single fucking I love you tore down everything. And I don't use that word loosely. I was supposed to be bullet proof, seemingly indestructible. There wasn't supposed to be anything that could break through, especially not love.

(Don't worry about the collateral damage.)

Not Yet Love --,

Dear-- ,

This isn't going to be some epic admittance. There will be no romantic setting, no rain, sunset or breathless kisses. I don't see a falling out and then a rushing back into your arms like in the movies. I can't imagine anything that would mark me conventional. I'll call you, most likely waking you up from well deserved sleep or interrupting something you'll claim isn't as nearly as important as me and it will be just that and nothing else.

(Not really sorry to disappoint.)

Nearly Love --,

Dear --,

There is nothing beautiful about this. It's raw and unfinished and full of so many regrets I'll have to regret later. This is me, with the skin and bone peeled away, with artery and lung exposed for all to see. I've spent so many months steeling myself against something wonderful. This is my once-beating heart, pulled out from me for everyone; there is not a single lovely thing about it.

(Keep wishing you were here.)

Still Not Quite Love --,

Dear --,

I don't think I am really that lyrical; it's all a hoax. The love and the tender words are all a trap. I'm trying to convince you that I'm so difficult because I don't want to love. That I want to make everything sound like a song because the way it comes out of my own head is too broken up. You think I'm amazing but you're hopelessly fooled. It's unique but only because you haven't met anyone as screwed up as me.

(Hope you won't find another.)

No Love --,

Dear --,

It's a battle, a struggle, a war, a whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-call-what-we-have. It tears my mind inside out while slowly stitching my unbeknownst broken heart back together. It's the most amazing and terrible feeling I've ever had and I wish it could just end and last forever. I want this, I need this, I love this beautiful, epic, spectacular disaster. I want this, need this, love this moment before it washes away from me.

(I want you. I need you. I love you.)

Finally Love --,