A Letter To The Lover Who Could Not Love Me.

Dear you,

I love you. I am in love with you.
I know you love me too; but you are not in love with me. You don’t know how to be.

I love your eyes. Orbs of dark brown that shine an inexplicable mix of melted caramel and chocolate in the sun.
I love how they twinkle when you explain the composition of a well framed picture to me. You had always loved candid portraits and you told me, once, that I make an appropriate subject for when you need exuberant pictures.
I love how your eyes dart across the room to hold my gaze when you feel mildly uncomfortable and frustrated amongst the strangers you must mingle with- for the sake of the job you sometimes hate- and how the second they find mine, I can see a calm take over them as your entire body relaxes.
I love how they burn with anger when you stubbornly disagree with what I say, but soften the very next minute when you worry that you have been too harsh.
I love your eyes.
I wonder if you will ever love mine.

I love your voice.
I love how it deepens when you sternly try to talk me out of my ridiculousness, as you desperately try to hide your bemusement at my idiocies. You talk the same way with your colleagues, only you sound less endearing and more intimidating when you do.
I love how it sounds when you throw your head back and clutch your stomach, your throttled laughter bellowing over my high pitched giggles. It makes me ecstatic that I can cause such an abandoned reaction in your otherwise guarded persona.
I love how it softens when you hold me close and encourage me to fight, reminding me of my capabilities and power. Knowing that your gentle assurance strengthens me for battle and heals my injuries.
I love your voice.
I wonder if you will ever love mine.

I love your hands.
I love how familiar and comfortable they feel as I hold them in my lap, toying with them, tracing light circles on your soft palm. I love the ease with which your hand envelops mine, so petite compared to yours. They make me feel safe when we walk through crowds, as you tighten your grip around mine because you’re afraid to lose me, as am I.
I love how you grasp your pen. You hold it differently from most. Your fingers curve around it with absurd elegance as your hand moves smoothly, your script so graceful, I could watch you write all day.
I love how the fingers from your left hand twirl into the handle of your favorite coffee mug while your right hand grasps it, as you inhale the aroma before taking your first sip.
Your hands are those of an artist, as much as you deny it. And no amount of formal emails and notes will ever replace the writer in you. Your hands were made to put pen to paper in order to create, and for that, I adore them.
I love your hands.
I wonder if you will ever love mine.

I love every little thing about you. I notice and observe more than you could fathom. It is almost psychotic, how I watch you; how I understand, recognize and love you.
It is as though you are an extension of myself. It takes no effort for me see the reasons behind what and why you are. I know you as well as I know myself. I love you as much as I love myself. Perhaps more.
I wonder, will you ever feel the same about me?
Will you ever know how to observe, notice and be in love with me?
Will you ever understand and recognize me, like I do you?
Will you ever know me?
Will you ever learn to?

I love you. I am in love with you.
I know you love me too; but you are not in love with me. You don’t know how to be.

With love,
Me.

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