He wrote me a letter

He wrote me a letter.

He wrote me a letter and told me of the first day he saw me.

It was just another Sunday for me, but not for him.  He was playing the same old songs and when he lifted his eyes, their meanings changed.That’s what the letter said.

He told me I wore a yellow dress and  that I had my hair held back. He noticed the crowd made me nervous, but I hid it very well with my  straightened-up back and straight-ahead glances, with the even breaths and the occasionally quisical brow. The left one to be exact.

He wrote a letter and called me beautiful. Not on the outside though; my ears are too pointy, my legs too small my hair is unevenly longer and the front and shorter at the back which makes my head box shaped most of the time.

 No- he said I was beautiful on the inside. What showed was the way my eyes sparkled in a glistening dialogue with both wonder and curiosity. He said I had the whitest eyes because they shone the brightest. He wrote and told me that he knew I was special because of my eyes. My eyes told him I was. They said it in those very words.

He wrote me a letter and said he usually didn’t do that sort of thing. He was the one that was usually written to, but on that day he was inspired to write to me. To little old me. He mentioned I shouldn’t be flattered because of the fact undeniable- praise is due where beauty dwells. He said that principle wasn’t an assertion. It was confirmed in my existence. Flattery was dishonest, but all he said was the truth.

He wrote me a letter and said that I was just a fifteen year old that was going to change his life. He said I was the one to make him hope again in life and living it. He mentioned he was unsure as to whether hoping and believing in the existence and possibility of love was redeemed in that very that moment; but I had caused him to give hope the benefit of the doubt and that was all that mattered. He was giving hope a second chance because of me. That’s what the letter said.

He wrote me a letter and all the other girls saw him give it to me. He didn’t care that they stared. I was petrified.

He mentioned that he contemplated giving it to my brother, but he decided that it would be more honorable delivering it in person after the church service. He admittedly told me he had heard a lot about me. I hasteningly opened my large mouth to ask what, and he chuckled at my foiled attempts to act unaffected. I was self refutingly eager to be obliged. At the realization he sighed and smiled.

Then he picked my stiffened and fisted hand from my sides and in it placed an envelope.

He then told me he had written me a letter. The very one placed and now clenched in my hands. He wished me a good afternoon and left.

I stood there and reminded myself, “he wrote me a letter.” I was desperate not to forget. I stifled my excitement in awkward looking smiles, sighed and strutted all the way to my brother’s car.

He wrote me a letter. He wrote me a letter and said all these things.

He wrote me a letter and told me all these things I already knew. He didn't even tell me he loved me.
After all, its always easier to say.
Its harder to show.

“Chaos got me so afflicted; it’s my heart, it can’t start

Love has got my mind so twisted; it’s my heart, torn apart

I can’t find the words to say this, but I know it’s my heart

It’s my heart.”