How could loving you be so unfair?
It seems that it is only me who notices, always eager to get a notebook and write all the things that have made me fall in love with you. I can't recall how many times I've stayed awake till midnight, trying to get the proper words of how your smirk has made a mark on my day or how I've been wanting to avoid those brown eyes I keep on seeing in the halls. Your voice, that I have been so familiar with, yet I still don't have words for, that habit you have: the way your hand would rub your neck when you're thinking about something. Something that I would love to know if you just let me. It all makes me want to figure you out.
And to every conversation we've had, when you call me up at 2 in the morning because you want someone to be there for you the moment she broke up with you a couple of hourse ago. I put every word to paper, even the parts that I know sting, hoping you'll read them and you'll know, just how much you matter to me. But then my pen always seems to be running out of ink. Just like my words and the paper I've teared in half, all the letters I didn't have the strength to ever send to you.
Did it ever occur to you that I keep on writing about you, hoping that maybe one day I'll receive an enveloped answer? All the poetry, random scribbles on table napkins you've seen were meant only for you. But now we're like the strangers we used to be, and I'm not going waste four stanzas and an entire journal recalling everything you have made me feel. I'm not going to, but I could only ask for one thing: I hope you write about me.
To you, I might simply be a name that might sound strangely familiar, but I hope you write about me too, in whatever way you want: on wood carvings, graffiti walls, and coffee shop receipts. I'd be happy, as long as you remember me.
Alve Aranton blogs at sheisthepaperbackwriter.tumblr.com.