A letter to the girl from the beach that lives now in the city:
Fuck pretty. I think you’re attractive. You’re clever and funny and understand jokes far quicker than I. You’re educated and have the best taste in music. You’re free and careless even though you’re the most thoughtful person I know. You carry your heart in your hands and I swear I can feel your love when you touch me. You’re transparent and honest and I see you as more than a person, I see your soul right through you. You have everything, yet you might as well not because you act with a kindness that doesn’t come from money. You could be different and I’d still be drawn to you, I’d still want to listen to what goes on inside your head. I want to know where you escape to when you feel incompatible with the society that surrounds us.
What I mean to say is: I think I love you with a love that is more than love, I love you and it has crossed borders, switched languages, and grown awfully patient, infinite and timeless. It has grown to a love that would elegantly wait a million years more, because it probably already has.
With infinite tenderness, this is my only worry: I am not as rich, only in love. I am not the most intelligent, but I am always willing to learn. I am not a man, but I think years from now we will laugh at how pointless gender can be. I offer you love and open arms always, if you’re willing to accept me for who and the way I am. It will soon be a year since I’ve met you, and I have a feeling that our lives will cross soon enough. I love me and I’m proud of who I am, I truly hope you feel the same towards yourself.
P.S. Pretty is a waste of my time, I chase stars and rocks and I go where the ocean takes me, that’s why I like you.