You are the only thing I've ever really loved. I mean, I love my mom and my dad and the sunshine, but you are the only thing that I've ever really loved like you're something else entirely. I know that makes me sound like I don't understand the connotations of "love," but I promise you that I do. I swear to high heaven that I do know. I understand them very well. I know because this is something else. I know because I've tasted everything else out there, and you are the only thing without a bitter aftertaste. I know because I don't know how to say this and I? I know how to say everything. Everything. You know that. I know how to describe indifference. I know how to spell apathy -- like this: "T-H-E-E-N-D-O-F-M-A-Y." I can use it in a sentence, but I know the shapes my mouth makes when I make the words "I love you," too. I can use that in a sentence, too. I'm brilliant; you cast a shadow that I'm drowning in. It's so safe here.
I tried commitment and I tried promiscuity and I tried hope and none of it feels like the way you smell. I can find you in the dark and I could paint pictures with your secrets if you'd let me know them. I could make great art out of your glances. I worry about you. And I don't know what I'm asking you for, maybe nothing, but probably everything, because I think you can give it to me, you would give it to me, and I might not be able to give it all back to you, even though I'd try, but I think you'd forgive me, because you are the best person I have ever met.
Darling, I don't mean this. I'm not really asking you to give me your whole heart, because you can't force it, you know? I just mean that I think you're something else.
And then there was one.
All my love,