Unsendable Love Letters

The Eighth Letter

My angel,

I wonder sometimes what my life would be like if I had never met you. Duller, bleaker, easier. Will there ever be something as self-destructive and complex as a human mind? Will there ever be something more focussed on its own downfall, more determined to pain itself with lost hopes and dreams and memories? So much beauty it can imagine, so much pain it causes in the end.

I feel horrible sometimes because I find myself secretly wishing your sweetheart and you end your relationship - but no! I cannot allow myself to steep that low, I would hate myself for it. This is torture. I can't stand to see you together but I want you to be together. Your lover would never hurt you and that is worth the jealousy for me.

I want this to go away so we can properly be friends again. My yearning for you will ruin what we have.

I want to draw you but the pencil and paper would do you no justice. How can earthly things create something that divine? How can they create pure starlight for your eyes, sunlight for your smile? Would there be a way to get angel wings on the paper, to pour perfection onto it, would the paper be able to contain such perfection?

How beautiful you are. Do you even know this? And yet I do not desire you for your body, though your radiant magnificence makes the sun blush, but I desire you for your mind. Your ability to place yourself before others but to still take care of your own personal health, your wish to make everyone happy, your honesty and unconditional love for human nature - your mind is like an abstract painting in which it's hard to make out what's what, but you can keep staring at it because you want to find out.

You know I long for you, and still you allow me to be in your presence; I do love you. So much. I don't believe in the perfect human, but I do believe one can be perfect to somebody, and you are nothing but perfect to me.

Je veux vous aimer, mon amie; je veux vous aimer éternellement, mon amour.

Forever yours,
N.