You once asked her why she told you I loved you, and not her, or at least why she thinks I love you, as you are someone who does not take the L word lightly. “That’s impossible,” you said. “It’s not like he has a million poems about me. We’ve known each other for years. If he had those poems, I would know.”
Actually, I do, and you don’t know, because no one knows I had those poems.
That’s not exactly correct. She found those poems before talking to you, but I was able to get them back before she left and I burned the every last one the other day. It had drivel, mostly. I whined about how goddesses like you could never fall for mere mortals like me (I still believe that, to some extent). I wrote it long ago for a poetry writing workshop. It was vile but I kept it anyway, because it was about you. I have no regrets. Most of what I’ve written isn’t worth wiping my ass with, anyway. To paraphrase the oft-quoted saying, love indeed, does make horrible poets out of buffoons.
We’ve been friends since forever. We met at a high school soirée (how cliché), and I’ve been in love with you since then. You were popular. Everyone knew you. You wrote endlessly about life and love with angst that, to my mind, set you apart from everyone else. I loved everything about you. I loved that you would write to me in baybayin, and that only you and I could understand what we wrote. I loved your hair, your eyes. You were (and are) the most beautiful person in the known universe.
I kept those feelings to myself all these years.
See, I like having secrets, and you are my secret everything. I love that about you. I love that the world seems to be right as long as you’re in it. I love the way we fit with each other. I love the way you give meaning to me. I love that you’re the only person who can make me drive like a madman. I love the way you save me.
You save me.
I could go on and on and it would be pointless. We’d never be together anyway. I’ve lied far too much and far too often for that to happen.
Oo nga pala. Belated Valentine’s.
P.S. If you see my old letters, and if you value our friendship in any way, burn them. You already know how I feel about you, anyway.
edited 15 August 2011 for clarity