To say that I fell in love with you the moment my eyes met yours would not be an understatement. I moved from a far-off town—not too far, but far enough that you had no idea who I was.
This is my love letter or confession to you, E. I'm stupid for doing this. I know I am, and I promise I'm not crazy or obsessed. I just came here to admit something otherwise scandalous, in a place I know nobody will find.
You and I are much alike in every way. If it were not for gender that divided us, we may have been the same person. But we are also so different. You are so beautiful. In a way that, by sharing it on here, is pointless—as no alphabet written with ink or word spoken with breath could describe just how much you shine. I am intoxicated by it.
Before I met you, I saw no God, nor existence of him, but since meeting you it has shown me that a face such as yours cannot be made naturally. For all of you is too intricate, too smooth to be of natural cause. With skin so smooth and eyes so deep, I find no evidence for this to be chance. This face and body were constructed with a mind like ours to replicate true beauty.
You are Plato's idea of beauty, fresh from the world of the Forms. You are unscarred; you are untouched by that which is mortal and impure. Yet I cannot love you. You are simply too kind, too intelligent, too charismatic for my human arms. I know this. For this body of mine is rattled with sin and ugliness, my silent loving eyes oozing with jealousy.
I see you gaze upon womankind—as I do. I know you chose womankind over man for good reason. That I trust. And I am happy for you.
Maybe I'm not.
You see, I have repressed these feelings so deep down. Without any hope of loving you to their true potential, I have found another. And she is wonderful. And beautiful. But only in the ways in which you yourself are. She is not you, however.
The night on which we both got drunk and you cried in my arms and told me you loved me, and how much I mean to you as a friend, awakened this repressed love within me. And when I told you I loved you back, I meant it.
I told you if we were both single by 35, we would marry each other. You know, as friends? My heart skipped four beats.
Now I wait for my thirty-fifth birthday, waiting for you to knock on my door. Until then, I have condemned myself to such a a very lovely loneliness
Your Lover
Lochlan