Babydoll (I never called you by your real name, ever),
By the time you're reading this, we're probably older, wiser, and better than we are right now. Let me guess, it's been four—no, six—years since I left, right?
You're probably touring the world right now.
I always knew you were meant for great things.
I never doubted you for a second.
I'm eighteen as I'm writing this, and your twenty-something self must be reading it.
I know.
I know because I planned for this to happen.
I do think things through, trust me.
By the time you've figured out what I mean, you'll be kissing the ground I walk on and singing praises about my intellect.
I'm sorry for calling you up on random nights to talk about silly things. Is God real? How did the first deaf person knew they were deaf? What's the scariest natural element? Who knows, really? These questions were dumb. You know it. I know it.
They're all pointless, but I hope you understand how infatuated I am with you. I love the sound of your voice. I love it when you talk. I love it when you don't. I love the spaces in between your sentences.
I sometimes wish I could shrink myself and rest on your lower lip.
Sorry, I'm getting side tracked.
Where was I?
Oh yes.
I'm sorry.
I have a lot of things I'm sorry for.
I'm sorry because I'm weak and stupid and I still can't let you go.
Last night when we kissed, you tasted like cheese popcorn.
I'm sorry for still kissing the orange out of your lips.
We vowed 'till death do us part'.
I'm sorry I had to cross my fingers behind my back.
Anyway, I wrote a poem for you in the bathtub.
Not a poem for you, you. But a letter to the other you that doesn't believe in being special enough to write about. In the third stanza, I realized that were were both as lukewarm as the water I've been sitting on for far too long.
There are different levels for everything.
Hot.
Lukewarm.
Cold.
Easy. Normal. Medium.
Extreme.
I love you extremely (does this even sound right).
I'm eighteen and by the looks of it, I'll keep loving you until the old man closes his coffee shop where we kissed for the third time. Everyone knows that won't happen. It's sort of like me throwing my cigarettes out.
Just so you know, one hundred per cent of non-smokers die.
Take that.
Baby doll, there's something that I haven't told you.
You see, this will only end in tragedy.
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