A Dear John Letter, Angsty Freshman Edition

Dear Brandon,

I could say that I am afraid to write this letter.  Somehow the act of writing awakens passions for you more urgent than before.  What can I say besides that I miss you, and at the sending of this address I will do so even more fervently.

            How I do miss you.  As the cold draws closer I am reminded in dragon puffs that I can no longer bury myself into your chest, where your warm heart resides.  Missing, too, are your comforting arms surrounding me, tender and steady.  And your eyes, shimmering in carefree places, I can barely imagine, having seen true gems like yours scarcely between staring blue screens and dark Gothic lines.

            Dry pages have become my lovers now.  Yes, my dear, I have left you for Shakespeare and Descartes and Poe.  At least, temporarily – there’s no telling whether their intricate logics and feathered words will lure my affections further from you.  Deep wet kisses excite for a moment, but the grave meditations of philosophical wanderings will travel. 

            This may be difficult for you to read as it is to write, but they touch me where I never knew I could feel.  Their subtle nuances remain with me after I end the conversation.  When I leave, they remain.  They continue speaking.  I must listen.

The masters are patient; they teach me things I do not know, in my own time.  When the slightest pen jot strokes the page, thrills send my imagination racing to discover the twists and coils laid out unendingly.  Every character calls to the whistling spirits within shadowed corners of my mind, sending echoes shuddering through forsaken shafts by lines well-worn, often traveled. 

You have a chance to make a choice, sweetheart.  Pursue the wind – captivate me once more with your loving embrace and smoldering gazes, the thought of which heats my every fiber.  This short-lived attempt may succeed in unchaining me from dim musty stacks and bringing me once again into early summer’s blazing sunbeams.  Or if that sounds tedious, leave me to be a poem’s chaste steward.  Know then that I will always consider my first love as the standard all sonnets fail against. 

One last option remains, if you are braver than I: join me.  Abandon the green shore and its happy pursuits for a dip into an ink lake spanning centuries.  You may find me between Tolkien and Plato. 

I anticipate your envied choice.

Sincerely,

            Your Beloved