The Little Things.

Do you know what's the hardest part of it all? The hardest things about unrequited love is not that I can never experience you holding me in your arms, not that I will never know the feel of your rough stubble when our lips meet, not that I will never know how it feels like to have you make love to me. Sure, those things can be difficult but they aren't the hardest things.

The toughest things are being unable to send you the love letters, being unable to hug you whenever I want, and being unable to entwine our fingers when they brush against each other. It is being unable to do all of the infinitesimal things that love requests me to do that really drives me insane. Love is like that. It desires, of it's own accord, to be expressed in some form. It is a constant force, driving my actions, telling me to reach out and just touch you, only for an instant, just the slightest brush of my fingertips against your face. Sometimes, I think the endless bliss of such a thing would be enough to stop my heart. And what a sublime way it would be to go.

Love moves all on its own. It requires no encouragement and no motivation. It is as if some sort of intricate and beautifully delicate perpetual motion machine has been set loose inside of me. Only you could do this. I cannot stop it and I cannot let it run free. It runs and runs and I wonder what it would sound like if it were a real motor turning within me. An exquisite sweet hum, and perhaps a sound like wind chimes on a summer afternoon. Still, the actions which it desires must be held in check. To use a silly metaphor that only a boy as wonderful as you would appreciate, I have to hold my foot on the clutch all day long.

It's all worth it though. I still get to write the love letters, even if I can't send them. And I do ask you for hugs, though I can't have them all the time. Perhaps once in a great while you might accidentally brush against my fingers with your hand, and even if it does not stop my heart, please do not be surprised when I stumble in mid-step because my knees have given way, and my voice gets caught in my throat as I try to explain what I would like to have for lunch. Only you could do this, and I would only ever want you to be the one who led me to such a state.

It's official. I need a life.