This is the 492nd love letter I've written you this year,
the 492nd that will never be mailed.

Do you remember when love was spread
like salt on half-assed, ill seasoned chicken soup?
Those letters stopped at #341.
Now these prose are written to not one loved by,
but one in receival of pointless and misguided love.

#136 was the letter of our nights of dreaming,
in cloudless harmony,
how our minds braided from miles apart.

#302 was of the day we became closer,
now only a 2-minute car ride apart,
no longer were our spines purging so rubber-band-like.
We were closer.
Our love swelled to string our hearts tighter.

And maybe that's why #341 happened.
No longer a necessity to work for love,
for teenage passion,
only a ritual of Monday night homework after Drama,
and denial of Do you want to tonight?
Shooed by a My parents...

Should #327 have been about our love being too easy to come by?
Because I couldn't provide what you didn't even chance at.