When all we know
is set aflame,
make foot prints in
the coal.
The soot,
a war paint,
midnight fair,
on your jutting
cheekbones.

Dearest Mr. Green,
It was an honor to have my heart broken by you. Your book, The Fault in Our Stars was one of the best recommendations I may have ever crossed. I thank you deeply for all the hours of pure giddiness and tortuous pain that you created in both Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters. However, I do have many questions about Hazel's future: does she ever loose her battle to her cancer? What happened to Augustus's parents soon after the loss of their son set into reality?

Your story honestly had my heart ripping slowly into pieces, the way you described how Hazel Grace and Augustus had crossed paths and went down a beautiful road into the hearts of all your readers... gave me the deepest appreciation of the young fighters of childhood cancers.

As a daughter of a cancer survivor, I've had my fair shares of visiting support groups with my mother while she was going through her treatments. I remember the panic I felt every time she went in for PET scans and Chemo, worrying for any ounce of her body to betray her. Thank you for making the pain and worry of cancer so beautifully worded, and the uncertainty of how quickly cancer can easily take the happiness away from someone.  
Thank you for the hopes given to me when you wrote the heartfelt words, “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.”

You are truly an incredible soul with a heartbreaking habit of writing books with main characters who tend to die of some serious form of illness. I find you to be both evil yet so perfect when it comes to your stories. You are my inspiration. However, I am slightly upset that AIA is not a real book. It would be quiet a wonderful rollercoaster to ride.

“Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like An Imperial Affliction, which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like betrayal”  Yours, could not have put my thoughts onto paper in any more of a perfected way.

Yesterday, you gained a new fan. I adore you as an author and person. I really do.

Sincerely,
m.b
July 11, 2013- I have yet to hear a reply...

I don't see blackness when I close my eyes,
I see you, me -- our moment.
Us sitting waist deep in the river between islands,
small waves lulling, and a sun
dripping oranges and reds to the west.
There is a laughter that carries the birds higher,
as we toss small shells at each other,
and you teach me to skip rocks.

Tell me if you wish it'd been different.

I think of what could have been
every time I see you
every time I hear you
every time I breathe.
The stray shell would graze your cheek,
you'd take my hand from your face
and place it over a rapid drum and say
This is for you.

Tell me if you wish it'd been this way.

Tell me if you ever think about our moment.
Am I wasting my time, holding onto this shell,
or should I let it go?
Would you watch it with me as it rolls on the river bed
and becomes forgotten?

I never suspected I had OCD
Until I replayed your voicemail
On the answering machine
A total of twelve times
Every evening
Just to hear your voice again
Or until I opened your dresser drawer
Thirty times
Before I went to bed
Just so I could smell
Your leftover scent
Wafting into the air
Or until I rearranged my shoes
In the closet four times
Before I left the house
Because you hated tripping over them
On your way out
But I knew I didn't have OCD
When I finally locked the door
And turned off the light
And made the bed on your side
For the very last time.

I first saw you in a coffee shop:

you were a few feet away from me. your feet tapped absentmindedly underneath your crooked chair while black and blue pen ink residue resided on your fingers. Your eyes were reading a newspaper yet your mind was paying no attention to the words. I was in such deep thought studying you that my heart skipped a beat when I saw your eyes glance up at mine. You started studying me instead of the crinkled worn out paper in your hands. A smiled played across your face as the radiant warmth of it touched my eyes—

This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.
Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you --
'This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.