I’ve written this letter to you more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve pondered over what I’d say. How I’d say it or if I even wanted you to read it. I imagined you reading it; going over every word with caution as you try to decipher my true intentions. I could almost see you in my head staring at the piece of paper that I confessed to before telling you the truth. The paper would drip with a hidden part of me. That was too deep; too real. That’s not true. So I tore it up. I could still see you reading something I had written. A tangible version of my mind that was just for you; but it hadn’t yet been written. So I knew it had to exist. I had written a lot of things but nothing I wanted you to see. So now I guess I’m writing this. I’m not sure what my intentions are anymore or even what I want you to get from it but I haven’t lied or hyperbolized. I haven’t told any real truth either. Suppose I composed the perfect letter for you, what would you want it to say? Better yet what were you expecting while you were unsealing the envelope? Is this too vague or do you understand it? I swear to you the first hundred were a lot more impressive. They were almost romantic but no emotional innuendos. They stayed on a steady track but I somehow began to derail. Something about this feels more honest and I guess only you will ever fully comprehend it. Maybe you won’t and all this was a waste to send. Would it have been better if I sent a telegram? That way I would forcibly get to the point in a fashionable manner. Even then you couldn’t pay me to get a word out. I’m too afraid to call because then I’d have to verbalize my inability to accurately come up with even one valid thing to say to you. So a letter just made the most sense. As I send this, I want you to know one thing: I don’t know why I wrote this or the other one thousand and thirteen letters, I just know you had to read it.