a teenage love letter

There is something I need to tell you. You probably already know this, but please, at least just hear me out. I'm about to reveal my hand, and without even looking at it, I know it's a pretty bad deal. But my chips are already on the table, so at least let me go all in - and before you call me on my bluff, please, let's just take this to the river.

Let me just say it - though I think you already know - I like you. There, it's out there. I like you in the way that a boy likes a girl. I like you more than the fat kid in me likes food, or the nerd in me likes video games, or... or the kid in me enjoys playing with Legos. I like you in the way that every morning when the Sun rises I just feel so glad that it shines upon a world that you exist in together with me, and if what I just said wasn't poetry, then fuck it, I'm not a poet anyways.

I won't go as far as to say the other 'L' word, if only because in this day and age it is taboo to even mention it, and also because it seems to have become reserved for the trivial and meaningless, like shopping, or food, or... handbags. But suffice to say, I like you. Probably not in the way of Shakespeare, romance has since ceased being so extreme, and we of today no longer 'burn', 'pine' nor 'perish'. If we do, it is frowned upon - a kind of stalker esque desperation, not so much romantic as perhaps creepy.

But enough with the metaphor and analogy. I know that the odds are stacked against me. But please. Put all these excuses and reasons aside, I just want to know if at any time during my doomed venture there was any hope - any hope at all - at succeeding, at scoring that million to one homerun, goal, whatever cheesy sports metaphor you can think of. For if there was, or if, dare I say it, better still, there is a chance, I beg you to ignore the warped cruelty of reality, and just toy with the delusions of this fantasy. Just allow me to like you, and allow yourself to be liked. That is all I ask of you.

Put aside reason and logic. We are teenagers, and consequently the world revolves around us, and our concept of now. The present is everything, nothing else matters, and if it does, we just don't give a fuck. We live for now, for the present. We live for the romance of the moment. And for now. For now. For NOW. For now, I like you. I really, really, really like you.

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This is a work in progress, and as such is incomplete. I just felt like posting up what I had so far. It is still rough around the edges, but still readable, I think. Or at least I hope so. I'll work more on this another time.