Inkless Letters

#2. A letter to your crush.

Dear Kayden,

 Wow.

 I’m pathetic. I'm excited about talking to you.

 But this isn’t talking, is it? It’s a weird one way conversation, which you’ll never hear. Or rather, read.

 Hi.

Yes, I’m awkward. Sorry. The mere thought of you excites my heart and makes me smile.

Kayden, I hope you know you’re amazing.

And a total ass.

Sorry for swearing, but that’s what you are.

You make me go crazy, do you know that? Absolutely, uncontrollably, irreversibly crazy.

I don’t understand you at all. You and your mood swings. One minute, you’re the sweetest guy alive, the next? The meanest, the rudest, the most annoying.

It’s almost like you’re bi-polar. (Not that there is anything wrong with that…)

It’s weird. The relationship we share, you know? Talk to each other for days and nights and month’s later, you can’t even say "Hi".

 Well, neither can I.

I’m to shy. I don’t want to look clingy and feel unwanted. And you have better things in life.

But I hope you know it’s not only your coffee brown eyes and your curly jet black hair I fell for. It’s you. Your thoughts and words. My god, they are beautiful. It makes me want to cry. It’s like an explosion of jumbled poetic phrases coined together that make perfect sense.

To you.  

To me.

To anyone.

Sometimes, you act so rude and sarcastic it makes me want to punch your nose. Hard.

And trust me, I’m not violent.

Like the other day? I bought a painting to school. Do you remember that one? Where there is this little girl in black and white, and she’s painting a colorful rainbow on the window?

I spent hours on that. Hours. It was the only work I was kind of proud of. It had a balance of color, and I liked what it stood for.

But do you remember what you said?

“The only place worthy of hanging that is the washroom.”

And I smiled at your comment. ‘Cause it stung. And maybe ‘cause that’s the only place my paintings will find home in the end.

Your perfection makes me want to cringe. And preferably hide in the shadows, curl up, and never come out.

But we have our moments. Don't we?

Remember class photography day?

Well you do. But not our moment. Because it was only my moment.

Despite all the knowledge you posses in your bright brain, you don’t know how to tie a tie.

But Einstein couldn’t (supposedly) tie his shoes. Oh well…

You walked up to me and said, “Can you make this for me?” as I nodded my head, to scared to speak. You went away, to talk to someone else, being the popular person that you are.

You walked back and I carefully extracted your tie over my head, and you smirked.

I had made it to fit me. Not a one foot taller person.

I apologized and started re-doing it. You know the part where you tug the tie, until it’s a perfect triangle? I was there, about to make the shapeless tie into a triangle.

But you held your hand up, signaling me to wait. The next thing I know, you’re stepping closer to me. Your feet are an inch away from mine. Less than an inch. The distance between our shoes is infinitesimally small.

Your hands come up, to your tie around my neck as my breathing halts. I drop my hands, as your hands reposition themselves on your tie. I stare at your hands, working like an expert in shaping that tie. I don’t even look up; I just stare at the flurry of quick, precise hand movements. They know exactly what they are doing.

I can feel your breath on the back of my neck. Your coffee eyes staring at your tie. Your smell comforting my senses. Your presence making me feel safe and secure.

And then it’s over. I breathe again, as you step away, and I pull the tie over my head. I stare at your receding figure, and I wonder. I’m so paranoid about my personal space. But then? I wanted you there. Forever. In that moment, we were infinite.

At least to me.

Oh, by the way, tell your girlfriend that I said congrats, for your twelve month anniversary.

 (I shouldn’t) Love you,

Ilta.