Below is the draft of a note that I never sent to the apple of my eye before:
Dear mahal,
I believe I'm falling for you already. You may probably ask why. I don't have an answer. But I can talk to you about it.
Will you hate me if I tell you I love you?
Yes, I already love someone, but is it wrong for me to love another, to love you?
I care so much for you and I knew I needed you. I only wish you care for me, and need me, too.
But I really don't care. What I care is that I tell you how much I care for you, how much I love you, how much I need you. I don't expect anything in return, except to continue inspiring me.
Love,
Mahal
Sounds corny, but true. That was the hopeless romantic in me. I made wonderful love letters for my friends way back in high school. After college, I made a few, this time, for a lady who was desperate to bag this guy (not gay). She got him, and she did not even bother to invite me to her wedding although I would like to believe my letters were not entirely responsible alone for hooking him up.
But look at the draft above. It's lousy, right?
2 comments:
Hey, you could have put that in her prayer book, you know.
I hope to find that unsent note and have it framed to remind my days of quietude, a.k.a. as katorpehan. No regrets, anyway. More notes to come? It's easier now with texting. But nothing beats a quiet and cold corner in a cozy resto.
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