Sooooo…something sweet/angsty. It's in old-sounding English, completely the opposite of this drivel I'm typing up here. ANYWAY, ONTO THE LOVELY-SOUNDING WORDS.

Another Love Letter

The Writer put down their pen. There. It was done. After so many failed attempts, they had come as close to articulating their feelings as perfectly as possible. In the light of the last flickering candle, they scanned the letter that would soon be in the hands of their most beloved. There was no heading. The Writer was done with the stalling of formalities. With the sending of this message, all formalities would (hopefully) be forgotten. Though whatever happened, there would most certainly be a change. And mayhaps a change was all they needed…

It may be cowardly to do so, but I will express my feeling through letter. Maybe I am too shy to watch your face react (though how I enjoy to see it). Or, it could be that I simply wish to be understood clearly, as is sometimes difficult to do when conveying a message through the spoken word.

Forgive me for not being descriptive. For not dazzling you with words of imagery; for not bringing forth choking emotions by way of revealing, poetic lines. We both know my fondness for them. In all other matters, I am a storyteller. But here, I do not have the gall. To treat this letter as a mere form of entertainment-a tale; a way to practice writing style and pass the time-would not only be a mockery to my ambitions, but to you as well.

And if, from the contents and tone of this letter up to this point you have yet to perceive these ambitions and intentions, then I will be very frank right now. I am in love with you. Do not hate me for it, scorn me not for it; the one side of your face I cannot bear to view is the side that despises me. And oh, how I have tried to keep these very desires hidden! I fear they vex you; I fear they alarm you. My God, I even fear that they warm you. The hope that knowing my feelings will awaken you to yours is too much. This hope gives me pain of worry; of self-doubt and jealousy. It keeps my eyes open at night, and even when they are closed, no respite is found. Only visions of torment that are a jest to my feeble heart, for they are all visions of you.

Ah, and how this heart breaks now. Confession does it no service. I am nervous, I am shaking, I am on the very verge of madness. I want to rip this paper up and burn it, locking away every feeling toward you. Yet I will not. To do so, I would have to lock away my humanity as well. Do not expect me to do this. I do not expect me to do this. It is silly, these feelings: as is my devotion to you, at times. You do not know all the things I wold do for you. All the lengths I would travel, for the sake of your smile. And I will not give you a glimpse, for fear of giving you even more power over this poor soul.

But I ramble; I go on too long. I said I would be simple and frank, but here I have kept your eyes wandering along the page for several moments. But that is a nearly insubstantial amount of time, when compared to how long my eyes have been wandering to you.

It grows late now. I write in darkness, for I know I am most truthful at night. And it is my aim to always be honest with you. It is what you deserve. It is what we all deserve, and however naive or foolish that idea may be, it is mine.

And, when this letter closes, I hope you will be mine too. I pray for only a reply, dear, only a reply. I have wishes and I have hopes, but I have no expectations of you. Whatever your heart decides will not stain your character. But please, I beg of you: inform me of that decision as soon as your hand can bear to take pen to paper. My pen's ink fades and will soon run dry. My lights will flicker and fade and lose their luminosity. My eyes will close and my mind will abandon reality for a little while; I may forget my longing for you.

But no matter the changes of reality, my heart stays the same. It beats steadily. It remembers all and holds all. The memory of your touch and smell. The texture of your hair and the lovely color of your eyes. It will forever hold you fondly in its grasp, my love. Let these words fly to you swiftly; let them resonate with you. As I bid this confession to a final end, I hope that you have understood me. I hope for you to accept me. Sealing this letter may seal my doom and frighten you away, but I take you not for such a cowardly fool! I take you for someone brave and kind and witty, with beauty to match no other in these eyes of mine. They are forever burned with your image.

Love could be taking over me, but I let it do so. I allow myself to drown in these many overlapping feelings-suffocate hourly on them! It is no punishment; it is no terror. If that is what you fear, rest peacefully. Love is not all storms. It is also gentle tides and glowing, golden beams as well. I accept it all grandly; willingly; these highs and lows. It is with pride as well as misery that I feel these things in the name of that which we call love. Do you understand my paradoxes? My, who knows if I even truly understand them. But it is with all the same emotion that I use this letter a means to outstretch my hand in invitation, waiting for you to take it and clasp it tightly, or gently push it away. Make your choice, love. The decision that is completely of your own bias and heart-ignore any sense of obligation or feelings of sympathy and pity. Think of the happiness of none besides yourself. I will take an answer no other way.

Always and Faithfully Yours,

The Writer paused, hesitating to script their name. For so long they had kept their feelings in check and remained anonymous. Could they bear the harsh exposure of the spotlight? The constant attention of their loved one? The Writer laughed. That was exactly their wish.

And so the Writer finished their letter properly: tucking it into an envelope, addressing it, and sealing it, the candle's flame fizzling out the second the Writer fully completed the task they had set out to do