I think I have a thing for unobtainable women.
You, my dear, certainly fall into that category. You live so far away, you have your secrets that occasionally keep me from understanding you better (I feel that you don’t trust me, though you’ve said to the contrary), you are emotionally unavailable because of a recent break-up, and your appearance and career put you significantly out of my league. I don’t think that last point is exceptionally important (especially if you did feel the same), but I have gotten so masterful at giving myself mixed messages; some days I’m convinced that everything will fall into place, and that my affection for you will be recognized and returned, and other days, I try to rationalize myself out of this frenzy. It’s to no avail though.
I convince myself that I’m being silly when I dream of having a chance to hold you and reveal all of my softer edges. I serve up my feelings to my rationality. I put them in a box, labeled “juvenile drivel,” and push them to the corner of my mind. But then, you show glimpses of caring, and of understanding. You toss around breadcrumbs of affection, and my head-space is invaded again.
I have never been so drained.
I feel like interacting with you is like drinking entirely too much coffee, and then crashing. Except, I willingly drink again. You’re a fascinating individual, and I’m compelled to figure you out. I want to know why you think the way you do, how you experience everything, what incites your strongest emotions, what you care about. You think differently than I do, but the differences are pleasant and complementary; you blend intelligence with magical thinking in a way that inspires curiosity in me, rather than frustration. That magical thinking allows you to connect with your passions and feel things on a plane that I can’t quite comprehend. Everything about you is novel to me.
My interest doesn’t stop at mere fascination though. I feel a tenderness toward you that I rarely experience. I know the intensity of the heartache that you’ve experienced these past few weeks; I have been there, to listen, talk you through it, and try to supply a bit of positivity. I can’t claim to truly understand how you experience this pain, but I do know that it’s there. I want to help you through it, and this situation has contributed to my reticence over telling you how I feel; I want you to be happy, and I know that I can help you more as a friend at this point in time. I want you to be at ease, and I will not contribute any uneasiness. Even though dealing with unrequited love is painful and confusing, and I know just telling you will make me feel better, I will wait. I know that for all of your secrets, you trust me to be supportive, considerate, and helpful at this time. That’s what I’ll do. I can’t think of better objectives in my day-to-day life, than to give you some reason to smile, to ease some of your worries, and to give you someone to trust.
Maybe you are unobtainable, maybe not. I’ve decided that that is irrelevant. I care about you entirely too much to let that be a determining factor in when, how, or why I interact with you.
I do love you though. I will tell you eventually. I won’t let my own insecurities and cowardice keep me from telling you. While I care about you too much to tell you now, I also care about you too much to overlook opportunities to be completely honest with you.
I’d like to end this letter with a poem that reminds me of you:
You Are Tired (I Think)
You are tired,
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.