Love Letter

This is a love letter
To a beauty so deep it makes the ocean look amateur
To a pair of eyes so indescribable in colour I have named them Aurora and Borealis

I would liken you to a rainbow, but that underestimates the contrast between you and the world surrounding so, if you must be called a rainbow, then you are the rainbow that appears in the face of an oil spill.

You are the feeling of night-flying a kite, and when I can't see you, I know your presence by the gentle tugs you provide on my strings

This is a love letter
To every bruise earned by running too fast to answer a ringing phone.
To every tie that's just a bit crooked, every flower that's just a bit wilted, and every guitar that's just a bit out of tune.
To a mind so brilliant and a voice so enchanting that when you gifted me a decision over the behaviours of your tongue, all I could ask of you was to keep talking.

Were I to compare you to a summer's day - it would be the day we declared meteorology impossible; a day where the sun shone brightly on a blanket of snow-covered flowers beneath a canopy of red and yellow leaves being softly struck by a timid rainfall - the best parts of all seasons and still a day unapproachable in its individuality.

I stand clueless as to how you've so completely entranced me; and asking you would be like asking a magician to reveal their tricks only to find out that their magic is real. And if you ask me why I hesitate to see you remove your clothing, it's just because every colour is so much more vibrant when you wear it.

I can't say that you've numbed any of my pain, or that you stand as a beacon in a darkened existence. I can't say that you're what's right in a world gone wrong, and I can't say that you've healed a single wound of mine because you have taken over the part of my brain that can see those things, and with you, as far as I know, they don't exist anymore.

It feels like I stumbled backwards through a karmic baptism while the judge was asleep at the wheel, because I sure as hell haven't earned this privilege, and what man could?

Still.
This is a love letter
To ink and paper declarations with little literate alliterations
To the tiny imperfections that appear when you smile that way
To you, for smiling that way because you want to show them off
I love you

And I wish I could capture you accurately - have a reservoir of language so guided and precise to present a linguistic watercolour in the air before me, forever shifting and changing because still life is your own antithesis.

I want to tell you that you are the double-speed recital of unmitigated embellishment from an egotistically wordy cerebellum bridled simply by a vocabulary incapable of achieving description tantamount to what you mean to me.

That I am forever in automation, scribbling madly each inspiration you pass my way, and always speaking more profoundly with the specific smiles only you can coerce from my lips.

That we are the very image of what happens when a dreamer meets a dream.

And that this..

Well...this is a love letter.