Love letter number 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Gay and Lesbian  |  House: Booksie Classic
Love letter. Changing names in it so everyone is comfortable.

Submitted: December 03, 2014

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Submitted: December 03, 2014

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Suki,
  Stepehn King once said, "Alone.' Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym."
I have been alone for a while now. A little over two months to be exact. I have spent countless seconds, minutes, and hours on people I believed would take the feeling of being utterly alone away for a bit. I was swrong with every single one of them, even the one I (sadly) wasted four years of my short life on. I wrote them all poetry that I will never get back, words now meaningless that I can never give to anyone else, clever metaphors and intricate allusions that will forever be theirs now. But, see, none of that has mattered as much as it used to matter to me for htese past couple weeks. I thought I was a complete idiot at first, to have some sort of hope that a girl like you could be capable of thinking someon like myself is beautiful, funny, bright, or sweet. I had kept my feelings swept under a rug and intended to keep them there - until the night you told me that I was the girl you had liked so much. You helped me through a lot that night, and you also helped me ralize that going after that deceiving bitch was pointless when what was best for me was right in front of me. You're so much better than her, Suki. I wish I had seen that before I let myself get hur agian. But I know you wouldn't do the same thing to me; I trust you on that. You really don't understand how wonderful I think you are; you're so easty to get along with, so fucking beautiful, funny, caring, charismatic... The list goes on. And so, after some thinking on what I could do to show that you mean a lot to me, I figured that if I can write all of those shitty people great poetry, I can and will do the same for you. Iwant to write you poetry that would make Charles Bukowski himself roll over wiht jealousy in his grave; therefore, until I either fuck up or run out of creativity I will have a new one for you each time I see you from now on.


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