Long trembling fingers struggling to hold a cigarette stick. I stand still like a small child and watch the trail of smoke escape from his opened mouth and swirl softly around his face. He has always appeared like a big baby to me- vulnerable and attention-seeking. I want to protect him, clean his wounds and put sticky beige plasters over them. I also want to take him by the shoulders and shake him, yell at him to wake up, get out of his surreal dream-like world and get his act, his shit, together. There is such a strange convolving mixture of affection and disappointment, maybe even disgust, at the way he is living his life. It reminds me of the way I am living my life. Makes me wonder where we stand, if we’re just sitting and waiting for death instead of doing something, if we’re doing enough, if we’re going to be okay.

He’s falling apart. Sometimes he gazes at me with such a shiny sparkle in his eyes, as if, as if I could save him, could readily dispense easy solutions to all his problems. But my dear, I’m not a savior. If I could take your hurt away, I would. But there’s nothing much I can do. I can only help see you through it, encourage you and hope that ultimately, you will have the strength to pull yourself out of it.

I am, just like you. This is the blind leading the blind. We’re groping in the dark, pushing, drawing, cutting lines, pressing buttons, with no rest, no light in sight. The only consolation is that we drink from the same cup. We share the same emotions, the same way of indulging in pain.

He blinks as he thinks, strands of hair falling to his black beady eyes.

“We should stop being friends,” he tells me, “It’s too painful.”

“Painful?” I question.

No response.

A pause.

A sigh.

“We’re either lovers or we’re strangers,” he says.

It is the most cheesy, corny, emo line I have ever heard. I nearly cringe, nearly explode into laughter at the exaggerated seriousness of his words, but don’t.

“Okay,” I say, straight-faced but not solemn, “Then let’s not be friends.”

“Okay,” he says, “Fine.”

It does get lonely. He’s lonely, I’m lonely, why not get together? But I don’t like him that way, even though it would be very convenient for the both of us. As it is, I’m not that pragmatic yet. I don't know if this is a good or bad thing. I don’t even want to give it a try.

But wouldn't it be nice if you were in love with the person who's in love with you? I think there is a great deal of unrequited love in this world. It is such a terrible waste.

I still believe in this idea of love, in what feels right, in its idealisms and promises, in mutual support and the ability to grow together. I believe that somehow, everything will all fall into place very nicely. There will be no pain, no scorching embarrassment, jarring awkwardness or biting rejection. It will be silly. It will also be very sweet.

I wish you all of these. From someone as beautiful as you are. Someone who will keep you safe and warm and secure. Someone who will meet you halfway and work with you so you don't get so tired of trying so hard. Someone who will kiss your flaws and see them as strengths. Someone who will shelter you, hold you, nurture you, stay beside you, encourage you, understand you, forgive you, laugh and cry with you, and cherish you for just who you are.

I wish you, love, as pure and as deep as can be conceived.

(You know what's funny? I think this is about as close to a love letter as I'll ever give.)