Even as your words break my heart, your sweet smile and
deep eyes warm my soul.  How can I hate you, resent you,
when the sight of you heats me like a cast iron skillet
on a hot noon in August?

I sit, pen poised, and yet my hand stawlrdly refuses to
let the words come, afraid that if I allow myself, for
even the briefest moment, to express the truth, I will
have to lay my head down in my arms and cry until my body
aches with the wrenching sobs and my heart bursts with the
power of my anguish.

This is torture.  Pure and unrefined.  To hear lil Eve
speaking of you, know that your notes and picture are kept
precious and cherished, near to her bed at night.  To have
the sudden and certain knowledge tat you will not use the
number I gave you, but that you will instead accept the
offer of amnisty.

Several days ago, I wished with all my heart and soul that
the note you carried was mine.  Now it is, and I wonder
briefly what will become of it?  has it already seen it's
lifespan, cast out among the food and broken bottles and
other unending amounts of trash that surround us?  Do you
hold it close, feeling unhappy and uncomfortable with it's
wieght?  Do you run your finger over the words, reading
and rereading each line, seeking to extract from it by
sheer force of will the desires that drove me to write
it?  Dare I even contemplate such a thought?  Have I any
right?

Lil Eve says she can tell you are unhappy tonight, discontent.
I abhor to think that it is I who has brought this feeling of
dread, guilt, worry to your soul.  It is the last thing
I wanted - ever.  I wanted to affect you, body, soul and
spirit.  I did not want to affect you like this.

Each day my feelings for you become more certain.  It
frightens me.  I hear your words crashing soft as thunder
in my ears: "Just don't go falling in love with me, ok?"
I had, in my somewhat niave thoughts, convinced myself
that this was merely in jest, because of the soft, teasing
grin that accompanied the words.  I suppose now i must
see it was not.  I don't hate men - I hate myself, for
reading my own emotions from their words.  Truely, it is
not fair.  To them, or to me.

I long for the day I might make all these writings open to
your eyes, see your face lighten with delighted shock.
I know now that day will not come.  And each time I add
another line, another word, another syllabel, I add another
stone to the weight that is dragging me down by the heart...
pulling me down from the air I breath, drowning me in
my own bitter lonliness and regrets.

It is late, I grow weary.  I will sleep now, perchance to
dream and in dreaming, know the ecstasy that reality, it
seems, is not fated to allow me.