I Hate Love Letters

It’s ironic I suppose.

I had a muse but he has long since passed.

I formally wrote many love letters.


It was ridiculously pathetic, I’ll be honest.

I stopped getting hung up on my past lovers when I realized I’d live the next couple of years much happier on my own. I hate reading other peoples love letters.


This is when you tell me to simply not read them then.


I have only one of my own love letters saved:


**A love letter to the red flower. **

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**Though I sit in front of words on a document I will likely lose, you never fail to captivate me. As embarrassing as it is, you’ve made my environment cordial and warm. **

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**I once compared myself to a hummingbird. I am barely on time and stumbling all over the place, trusting that my feet will keep me from crashing. I’m hardly a hummingbird. A hummingbird’s heart can beat as fast as 1,260 beats per minute. **

**Supposedly, I write as if my heart is beating about the equivalent of a hummingbird.  I would forget to breathe when I wrote because of you, my beloved. You took the air out of my lungs simply because you could. You took every chance as an opportunity to nurture me. Your tender yet smitten words that I am fond of turn my life into some kind of fantasy. **

**Darling, you might never comprehend the full extent of my devotion to you. You have, over time, become my passion, my muse.  The hummingbird found a red flower (you being the flower and me, the hummingbird) and it relaxed. Its heart began to beat slower. It took comfort in the red flower, and for once in its life, the hummingbird let itself be calm and content with its red flower lover.**

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**Maybe I don’t hate love letters. **

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**Maybe I just hate yours.**

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