Letter to Strange Love

Dearest,

It is a sensational serendipity that on the day I wrote to Infatuation, you return, and how. It is also incredible that the fuzzy logic of chemistry and warmth can concoct a strange love -- you. And though sometimes saddening, it is but good that such love is what we are, strange. Better than being strangers anyway. So good, so good to be fitting into curves and slithering into shapes, more than a jigsaw it feels like the running of a steel knife through a room temperature blob of butter. Smooth, smooth as running one's fingers thorough a sun-soaked blanket on a winter afternoon and smooth as the acceptance of strange love, illogical, irrational but irresistible. 

This letter goes out to you as a confession. At one point, I felt like being in heaven with you. At another I was devastated. And again at another I felt happy at emerging victorious from all the pain, and knowing to live and deal with it. But what was the strangest thing about you? That out of a deep hurt and a deeper anger at you I began writing to you, never to reach you. Everyday. Sometimes even in your presence as I looked at you through swelled smiles, or had you over the phone, I wrote. The process eventually helped the seemingly difficult distance bearable. I rediscovered the beautility of writing something out. Thus the day the need to write to you stopped, I smiled, believing I have won over heartache.

Yet, here you are, strange love, as if yesterdays were like washable stains. I like it that I do not shed a tear tonight and I am happy at the severity of strangeness and that though similar, today is different from what yesterday was. Today has no expectations, and today is a moment of the now and today does not question how. You are wicked, wild, nice, pathetic, limitlessly loveable and yes, perfectly hateable. But, you are dear, and endearing. And though strange, you will always be special. I may deny it sometimes, but you will.

Tonight that I am able to give in to writing, and have begun a series of tonights, began from you. You do not need me, not always, and frankly nor do I, but know this in your heart that when you do, you will still have a little love at some corner of this universe, in this beating heart, one beat will count as  yours. I may not have been of any good to you, but the strangeness of your love enabled me to endure suffering and empowered me to love again, and most importantly, to write. 

Love, and lovebites.

PS: For what is stranger than fiction?