A Love Letter, of Sorts

Dear.

I always suspected that I would fall for you. I just never knew how quickly it would happen, or how deeply it would be. You've become like the Sun to me; I know of your beauty and warmth, but am still amazed each and every time I look upon your bright, shining face. I expect that you already know of my intent, seeing as how I rarely hesitate to make mention, especially in my brave and drunken stupor. But it seems fitting to formally unveil my odd sculpture of words, in such a public setting as this, no less, and hope that you might stumble into my exhibit of lost inhibitions and great expectations. And if you were to pause for but a moment to truly look at what I present, and try to understand what I mean to convey, then that would be reward enough. Any amount of praise or ridicule from other critics would be nothing but nothing. Meaningless prose from once meaningful people. Spent and useless shells from an artillery of vocabulary no longer necessary or redundantly needed. All that is you is all that I would require. And inquire to acquire as I aspire to inspire some type of similar sentiment in you. And so it is with these last few words that I end what, something-willing, could become something beautiful.

Yours, sincerely.