This is to a boy I do not know. I exaggerate even the simplest of details. I examine your skin as if every pore is filled with the nectar of Gods. Although you may not know me, I’ve heard every word you’ve said. I’ve heard them so clearly and so phonetically correct that I could hear these words through a raging crowd. I could hear these words through the currents and tides of the seven seas. If you ever see this, I don’t want you to get flattered or apprehensive. I want you to understand that this message isn’t about you, it is to you. The eyes on this message are not the boy I’ve fallen in love with. The eyes of that boy are created only by letters, letters connected to words, words connected to sentences, sentences connected to paragraphs. Letters that seem as real to me as the hairs on my arm, but letters nonetheless.
I would use every symbol known to man (or even several that are not) and I could not grasp the emotion that I have. All this writing seems to be wasted on a boy who will never read it. Though that statement may be true, it does not help. It is not my fault that my mind is so aggressively attached to this imaginary boy. Every word I create or have created belongs to this boy. I would lay down every paper, notebook, or blog post I’ve written and give it to him in hopes that he’d feel even a microscopic amount of what I feel for him. However, that boy is a figment of my imagination and so this message is not to him. This message is not to a boy I will never know. This is message is to a boy that I do not know, yet I hope to know so I may begin writing letters again.