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Literature Text
Dear __________,
I'm amazed that you haven't noticed yet. I thought you were so perceptive, and I know that I've only made this so obvious. Yet still you do not see what is basically slapping you in the face.
Or maybe you do see, and you simply wish you didn't. Maybe you've known all along. Maybe you knew even before I did. Is this not something you wish to acknowledge? Do you see me as insignificant and unworthy of your attention, and so you deny my existence as well as my affection. Or am I simply over-analyzing this?
I have so many questions for you, my dear. So many, I can't seem to keep them straight in my mind. Yet, as much as I wish to ask things of you, I also wish to explain. I just don't know how yet.
I can't seem to pinpoint the exact reasons why I love you. Is it the totally adorable way your lips naturally pout when you aren't talking. Is it the way your hair curls around your ear when it grows long, so boyishly loving that beautiful, tender part of your face. Or is it your hands, and the way they are so beautifully masculine; and is it how they can create such lovely works of art, sculpt it from junk and trash. I don't entirely know, my love. Maybe it is one, maybe it is all. maybe I simply love everything about you. Maybe I'm not supposed to know why. Maybe it's meant to be a sort of secret, some unattainable scrap of knowledge and meaning that I'm not supposed to think about or over-analyze.
Maybe you don't care why I love you. Maybe you don't ever want to know. Which is why, my love, you will never receive this letter. It will find its way into my chest of secrets, a scrap of thought forever forgotten, at least until I look through and find it again, some ten years from now, or never.
And so this small, insignificant scrap of what used to be part of a tree now holds my deepest thoughts and fears about you, my love. Cataloged, I pay this impossible, heart-breaking love will pass. I pray I can forget you, my love, as if you were simply a beautiful, sad dream.
Good-bye, I hope,
Ellie B.
I'm amazed that you haven't noticed yet. I thought you were so perceptive, and I know that I've only made this so obvious. Yet still you do not see what is basically slapping you in the face.
Or maybe you do see, and you simply wish you didn't. Maybe you've known all along. Maybe you knew even before I did. Is this not something you wish to acknowledge? Do you see me as insignificant and unworthy of your attention, and so you deny my existence as well as my affection. Or am I simply over-analyzing this?
I have so many questions for you, my dear. So many, I can't seem to keep them straight in my mind. Yet, as much as I wish to ask things of you, I also wish to explain. I just don't know how yet.
I can't seem to pinpoint the exact reasons why I love you. Is it the totally adorable way your lips naturally pout when you aren't talking. Is it the way your hair curls around your ear when it grows long, so boyishly loving that beautiful, tender part of your face. Or is it your hands, and the way they are so beautifully masculine; and is it how they can create such lovely works of art, sculpt it from junk and trash. I don't entirely know, my love. Maybe it is one, maybe it is all. maybe I simply love everything about you. Maybe I'm not supposed to know why. Maybe it's meant to be a sort of secret, some unattainable scrap of knowledge and meaning that I'm not supposed to think about or over-analyze.
Maybe you don't care why I love you. Maybe you don't ever want to know. Which is why, my love, you will never receive this letter. It will find its way into my chest of secrets, a scrap of thought forever forgotten, at least until I look through and find it again, some ten years from now, or never.
And so this small, insignificant scrap of what used to be part of a tree now holds my deepest thoughts and fears about you, my love. Cataloged, I pay this impossible, heart-breaking love will pass. I pray I can forget you, my love, as if you were simply a beautiful, sad dream.
Good-bye, I hope,
Ellie B.
...
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can i ask you who it was about?