Love letter # 473

However much I would like to talk to you, I am sabotaged. Perhaps it is shallow and silly to admit, but I am befuddled by your form and flow. Words catch and break. Mature demeanour disintegrates. I get sweaty. It’s terrible.

The irony of your beauty is that you will most likely never see me. I will remain the somewhat hapless, bumbling fool. Near you, I am in a fog of incompetence. At a distance, where the light is crisp and the air more breathable, my thoughts are clear. I can write things like this.

Desire is cruel. It denies itself. I wish to approach but, by the mechanism of my wanting, the approach is rendered pointless. Thus, in order to be in the proximity of your wonder, I must learn to find you less wonderful.

So let me put it on the record before I initiate such a process. You are just gorgeous. I am in a stupor, dreaming of a day when you might think the same of me. And now I will pretend I don’t feel this way.





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