Cathartic Love Letter to Someone I Want to Meet

I. I. I. I stutter on the page like I've never stuttered with my mouth. It's too fleeting, too slippery, too dangerous to form in my throat so I desperately attempt to form it in ink but still, what are the words? How can I know them? I know so many but I can't find a way to string them together in a way that would effectively transfer the glowing ringlets in my spine up my hand and onto this page and into your heart. I wish I was a musician- they have it slightly easier I think. Music would tell you so clearly what I'm trying to say but I know no symphony in existence with this particular message and I lack the ear to create it.

I want to write a love letter.

I want it to burn with warmth and drip of passionate, prideful, independently wealthy adoration. I want my words to ring in your ears when you lay down to sleep and I want them to be the first thought rattling in your skull in the morning. That would be a fraction of the weight I'm bearing for you on my shoulders. I have weak shoulders, you know that. 

What I hold for you radiates like the sun and I've been burnt alive, I've died of heatstroke a million times over. You're...indescribable. You're the universe. If they sold a guide to loving I'd be the first to buy it, read it, learn it, live it, if it meant you got the best love, the most refined, practiced, raw, and uncoordinated. I would calculate chaos if it meant you understood the seriousness of my devotion to the space between your eyes and to what's held within your ribs.