A letter I wrote to a boy who had no interest in me

you. no, the other you.

i'm feeling a sort of utter defeat today, the kind that breaks men's resolve for good sometimes. it is, perhaps, this weakened state that makes me say, "fuck it, write something to him", or perhaps the poet is incapable of restraint, perhaps i am incapable of good sense. i do not expect that you would look past a complete lack of interest to talk with me. i think that my attraction and the most diaphanous of threads connecting my imagination to you compels me though (you wouldnt even remember) probably beyond any actual knowledge to a kind of platonic meme that you don't actually inhabit... oh the tats and the intellect and the eyes that rip souls to shreds. what is attraction but representation? i hope its more primal than that. god i hope for a world with real truth that i know doesn't exist, and beauty that is more than just biology. okay, i've already written too much, but i have expressed myself... as i am wont to do, regardless of anyone else's inclinations. drunken. i now return to the hollows that wood elves inhabit when men walk the spaces between trees. i shall not bother you again with this nonsense.

dualism is bullshit, but you know this.

(he never responded.)