Dear, Love

Dear Love,

I have heard much of you

from those who’ve had the pleasure

and displeasure of knowing you.

Praises and insults are never far away,

when your name escapes their lips.

Wonderful, breathtaking, a change for the better.

Blind, cruel, the worst thing that’s happened.

But for all their words,

I can only acknowledge them

with a grain of salt.

For Love,

you and I have never met, not truly,

and no surprise would come

if we never meet.
 

Oh, we have spoken before,

briefly through the bond of family and friend

but those meetings are little

no more than the bumping of shoulders

on a crowded street,
rushing to separate obligations

True meeting between us is nigh impossible

and you and I know why.

Love, you are a battery in this circuit,

those who know of you are the wires,

all of you come together

lighting the metaphorical bulb of romance.

I was never connected,

At least not to the romantic.

Just the platonic.

I know of all your efforts, Love.

Constantly you have tried,

to connect my wires.
Thus I have picked up my pen,

to write you this letter

to request that you stop.

I have no want or need

of your romance,

and never will.

Yes, I have been curious of you

for I have not had the experience

that would have been our meeting.

But I beg of you, Love,

do not mistake my curious nature

for any want or need of you.

I am content to know

that I care for my family and friends.

You may think me lonely,

when romance has not stained my skin

red with blushing embarrassment

or drawn sparkles to brighten my eyes

with hopes and tears of ruination.

But Love, I can assure you

that I am from from it

that I never will be.

For there are friends I cherish

and hobbies inspiring my passions.

I am content

though I wish we could meet one day

I have no need of your romance

Please Love, accept this

and leave me be.

There are many who crave to meet you

and crave your romance

like moths crave a flame.
They require your touch

more than one such as I

who is happy to live out her days

with ink under her nails,

graphite on her hands,

and books yet unread
 

Sincerely, Rae.