Sometimes it isn't enough to say that I love you. It isn't enough. Such a small word cannot encompass such a big feeling. It isn't enough to tell you that I have always admired your strength. It isn't enough to share with you that I lose myself in your perfect blue orbs of light, it isn't enough to tell you that you have the power to stop time when you look at me.

I could fill this letter with roses and wine and wildflowers in June, but that is not what I am getting at. That is a more prosaic kind of love, and not even close to what I feel for you. I love you with the kind of love that doesn't have to lie to you. I can be myself in front of you, and you will accept this, and even find it endearing. I can expose myself in the purest sense of its form, and show you all those little idiosyncrasies that I hide from the rest of the world. Loving you means accepting these aspects of yourself, as well.

This letter has not nearly yet begun. This letter may never finish. This letter is almost done. If you want the signature, you will find it in my kiss. If you want the postscript, you can read it in my eyes.

She would slip in and out of my life whenever she wants to. It's as if she knows the time when I am most vulnerable. Her nearness brings me great joy and great fear at the same time. Joy that someone as attractive as her would find someone like me worth sharing her time with. Fear that I am being led again to an old but familiar path. A path I have visited many times before. A path initially filled with excitement, joy, and anticipation, but inevitably turns into frustration, deception, and pain.

And yet, I find it hard to stay away from her. Many times, I have tried doing so, but she has this uncanny way of seeking me out. And when she does find me, I would find myself following her helplessly, like a tamed beast placed under a deep trance.

At times, I wish that she would just keep her distance. Yet, I know that her absence will create a terrible void in my heart; an emptiness that no one else can fill in but her.

In a different place and in a different time, telling her how much I care for her would be easy. Doing so would lift a huge burden off my chest, and I could begin to entertain thoughts of a love pure and tender, shared by two hearts untarnished by worldly doubts.

But we live in the present, where things are not necessarily what they appear to be. And where the choices we make are often influenced, not solely by our present needs, but more by the marks left behind by past experiences.

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