Dear you,
I was never so swell at writing letters
but it seems that everyone is writing love letters these days
to the eyes they see as windows
to hands they see as safety nets
to thoughts from another head that help them make sense of all of it

and I don't think I've ever truly fallen in love before you
which makes a lot of sense since I always adored things that are imaginary
the mystical nature of it all
so I'd escape to the thought of your non-existent existentialism
that helped me feel some sort of cloudy comfort
I love clouds..
and love loves clouds, I mean it lives in number 9
and maybe this letter belongs with number 9
a cloud I haven't jumped to yet
because its a forced chronology
not matter how much I try to transcend space
8 was close, but we wont talk about that
because there's not sense in it
but i've also been told that love is a blissful repetition
of soul elation and heart sensation
and see, I told you
you whimsical daydream of a nonexistent fantasy
I told you that I was no good at love letters
because the best one ever wrote
lives in infamy in red roses and blue violets
it's just a think those lines are such a violent antiquity
but my words will never live up to such a sense of sensitivity
so as to be spend a life of monotony trying to make sense of it you see
I digress
where were we
I'm suppose to say I love you and I see no days without you
because you're my sunshine on a rainy day
but old rhymes and tired lies plague my listless rhymes
i swear im tryin'
you can't take to pleasing a mystery
with coyly placed tries of a tease
I might as well tie off my hopeless pleas
but please, don't write me off like the endless words in this tireless rhyme
because until the time rolls around the corner for my wandering thoughts to take form, you'll live in these hopelessly hopeful tangled letters
to you, the one I haven't met yet