Dear Stranger,
If you read this and think it might be about you please don't stop reading. I'm tomorrow bound and if I have found you than it must have been meant to be. Take every word that means more than silence and place it in parentheses. Don't worry. You'll know what to do soon enough.
Dear Stranger,
I held conversations with reflections. I doodled with my words. I was too serious with my sentences. The only humor I possessed came from a lack of grammatical finesse. I was an introvert, a seeker of idealism, a hopeless romantic and other times a cold realist. But mostly I was an escapist and the moment I met you I knew you were someone I could fold myself into.
You pulled me from complacency with the determination of a sunrise on a cloudless day. I was never intimidated by your seriousness. Maybe because I grew a year older after every conversation we had or maybe because I got used to the humor in your sentences. You and I were the kind of bad dreams worth having, unforgettable with the desire to find out how we would've ended if we hadn't woken up when we did. I’m not saying I’m still in love with you. I’m just saying I couldn't stop myself if we found each other all over again.
Dear Stranger,
It was inevitable: questions still unanswered, stories still unfinished, thoughts still undone, ideas still unexpressed, and love … love is still unrequited. I am still undecided about everything, but amidst all this doubt, all this cynicism, all this un-ness, I am getting by without you.
Dear Stranger,
I haven’t met you yet, but now you know everything we ever aspire to be just types us faster towards the period following our closing parentheses (and the end of our story).