This is probably the least exciting love letter you've ever read. Maybe my love for you doesn't excite you, it doesn't feel like a challenge or like anything you can win.
I don't want you to win me, I don't want there to be a winner. I want truth, understanding. I want you to see in me what I see in you. I want to give you, to show you, life.
But you already have that, you can learn nothing from me; you can use my brain to think, you can use every part of my being, but you can never learn from me.
This isn't my love for you that writes these lines; my love for you is happy, sunny, green, it is filled with memories of your smile and brown eyes. This is my premature regret, my fear of losing you, my acknowledgement of the free will you gave me, the one that I cannot bring myself to use to make you feel this void inside me that calls your name.
Maybe this is a plea, a way for me to beg you to accept me. Maybe it's reassuring to think that if I say it a certain way, it might disgust you less. I don't want to repel you.
From a love letter I wrote. I couldn't write about my love for her because I don't understand it. I can only write about my fear of never telling her.