Love-Letter (XXV)

Hello Hotness,

What? You thought I was not aware of such language usage? I grew up in a convent, you may have missed. Anything forbidden is all the more desirable and the ultimate object of knowledge. So, here I am, all of seventeen and pouring my heart out to you. Infatution, many say, that's who you are. Are you?

Then why do I daily day dream that you would come home, no, not on a white horse, but in a red car, the halo of success all over your collar, wrist and cuff. I see you, the perfect mate in kitchen apron, helping me chop and clean as we settle to cook. I love those unbearably gliding shoulder blades lounging into the arm as I finger them and you take a sip from your bedside bottle of water, switch off the TV.

You are the premier cut of a steak, the man of all dreams, the soul of a gathering. You are Hotness -- a chin so delectable, a dimple so subtle, a neck so unpardonable. You are not the person on the other side of the mirror writing this fucking letter to self. A fat getting fatter good for nothing, a soul doused in doubts and a monumental sentimental who would never receive the first half of such a letter. 

You are Cold, and Cruel, a woman's man in the farthest of her imagination. All your Dad's riches would not assure you any standing, because you are lame -- in your thoughts, frozen in your confused clarity. 

You are the Me I can never Be.

Aditya Shekhar Raj, in a failed attempt to write a love-letter.