You might not know, but you have always been my muse—the subject of all my love letters.
I hope you know you are very poetry material,
I will definitely spend forever writing only about you.
You are my favorite topic in my postcards.
You whispered,
you kind of want to date a poetic girl
or a songwriter.
"Imagine the songs she made just for you"
are the exact words you said,
if only you knew.
That I write this for you,
there is no one else that could do it,
solely you.
It is not a matter of chance,
always a matter of choice
I believed.
Not until I realized how unknowingly
and precedently
I was descending to you.
Truly I hate you,
I hate you for being you.
I love you quite terribly,
I love you for being you.
How can I hate you so much
and love you at the same time?
You won money in the number game;
there was an
intense,
abrupt,
passionate
forcing feeling inside me,
wanting to pat your head,
touch your muffled hair.
But instead
I pulled your hair,
saying,
"Treat me."
I do really hate you—
sincerely,
earnestly,
without pretence,
from the bottom of my deepest heart,
in all consciousness.
You are not my ideal type—
surely not.
Nevertheless
I got to agree objectively,
that you have got a divine pair of chinky eyes
and a heavenly smile,
I think it is your charming point.
Did you cast a spell to possess me this much?
You are curious why do people fall for you
and I am thinking who would not fall for you?
You are not hard to like—
at all,
it is very easy to like you,
to the point I will not notice I am actually falling
. . . and failing—
failing from resisting.
You have got an irresistible pair of chinky eyes
and your laugh is—
the whole world will stop seeing that laugh,
because mine had stopped.
You are such a guy,
I hope you will be my guy.
