You're Real, I Promise
Dear Girl (whose last name I now remember, but will not divulge),
Your first name will not be included either. I wrote this about you, but don't know if you will ever see it. Or, if you would assume it was about you, were your eyes to grace the page. I hypothesize you'd feel pretentious in nature to assume it were you. Maybe you would start playing that old 'Cher' song in your head. The one about being vain. You're too humble. Or maybe you're not. I suppose I should get to know you before making extrapolations come to life:
"A little boy with bright eyes fell asleep trying to remember her name. Upon waking, it became glaringly apparent why he could not correctly construe letters together, the likes of which would give him the answer to his puzzle:
it was the mesmerizing effect and affect her smile had, the pretty little lips, rosy-colored, skin clad those pretty, petite eyes so carefully placed into a decorative, utilitarian face, never glazed; always attentive, delicately connected to a frame so small, yet strong enough to house her inner glow and it shone, through the windows to her soul, when she spoke, when she laughed, and when she looked right past all his faults and his fears; the things that made him insecure .
Her name is 'smells like flowers' her name is 'caress me and hold me close', her name is 'let me kiss you for hours' her name was—he didn’t know, because he fell asleep dreaming."
Perhaps I should have included 'idealism' as one of your names, since it is my profession, and in part, the aforementioned piece is positively such. I will inform you, I like to write letters. Usually to people and things, sometimes to myself. Sometimes both. You see, writing is easily coded; sure, you can read it, because you understand English, but can you understand it? I doubt so. And again, the problem of you not being cocky...what's a better word for cocky? I'm not talking about a guy. Thesaurus says conceited. I don't think you are that conceited. And, I apologize for the repetition of subject matter, but I just don't think you are. In this case, you are lucky, 'cause there is no coding, just coating. Mostly with syllabic sugar.
I'm not sure if you comprehend the abstract description or, more importantly, the fact that I change my mind like an incontinent woman changes her diapers; often. And both situations are messy; the difference between the two, is the conjecture that my idealism usually smells like lavender, vanilla, aaaaaaand, I'm thinking--and. I guess just lavender and vanilla sound pretty darn delectable to the old olfactory glands.
So, if you get a waft and it smells good, you can be assertive and make a move, presuming you thought it was you, which again, I find unlikely, or sit back, relax, satisfy the stereotype, and just wait for me to come to you. It'll happen. One last thought, plus equivocation, I would like to include: please do not feel mean or rude if you thing I am weird, erratic, annoying, too emotional or crude. These are a few of my flaws, some situational, and I understand the theory of deal-breaking characteristics as good as any human. I also like to bestow claims to being expert at things. For example, and I quote, "...I understand the theory of deal-breaking characteristics as good as any human."
Well, for now this is sufficient, I hope you can soon say you read this.
Sinceriously,
the aformentioned kid













