A Fictional Letter Of Unrequited Love.

My dear, how do I tell you I love you so that it rings truer than any other triplet of words you’ve heard? So that the sincerity, the profundity, of my honest convictions can permeate into the depths of your well-kept soul. This conundrum would deprive me of countless nights of summer night’s sleep during the year in which I first met you.
First, I tried whispering to you my gentle affections, but perhaps you could not hear me, for in response you only smiled. Civility has never left such an ugly bruise. Then, when I shouted my devotion from afar, casting my heart out into the world for inspection, you uttered ‘I love you too’ but you said nothing. Only the air hung under those flaccid words. The phrase held the same weight as the greetings you handed out to waiters at restaurants, there was nothing of me in your words, and I was alone in my admiration. Thank you for confirming the death of my singularity, I lowered myself into the grave of mediocrity in your grey eyes and I naively believed that at last, I could have a bitter peace in solitude.
And yet with the sunrise, I still pitifully believed that the hell I was enduring was anything other than eternal. As Adam stretched his fingertips towards his God’s embrace for Michelangelo, I hold out my hand to you as your lover once more. Desperately grappling for the deliverance I tell myself that your touch will give me. For a second the world in her sweetness held a breath for me with hopes, but in an ignorantly veiled repulsion, you turn away, crushing my redemption in a single gesture. As if I am a beggar on the streets, pestering for the throwaway scraps of your material existence, you simply ignore me and walk away.
You have your wish, my love, I am there no longer. I exist no more under your gaze, or under the heavens from which you were born. I no longer try to count the stars or sing for the sunrise, and I live amongst the self-loathing and shame that loving you will always bring me. I am not sorry my dear that I love you, that is independent of you, but I am sorry that you couldn’t love me back. I know that in your permanent absence I have found an aching serenity in denial, telling myself lies which allowed me to continue to live, but this letter my love, is all truth.
Your unrequited lover.

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