Shut up and tell me your favorite ice cream flavor.

I wanted to be telling the truth when I told you that I hated you, but the lie detector stopped me and suggested that I might love you instead.

I was too scared of that word, love, so I dragged my father's axe out of the garage for the first time. I'll leave the graphic scene up to you.. Then the metal arms reach for you as the head lies disconnected on the cement. Oops.

I never thought that I would be writing a letter to you before I emailed you, but sometimes, that's what romance is.

 Sometimes skinny dipping in the ocean cleans you off better than a shower. Somehow your lips look more kissable when you have a girlfriend. And somehow, I think you get better looking the more hours we waste in silence on the phone.

That's what love is. It's all these damn contradictions.

If you were an ice cream flavor, you would be vanilla. Not because you're bland, but because you're reliable. The grocery store never runs out of vanilla. You're no special edition, no low-fat bullshit, but you get the job done.

You go well with my whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, but hey, so does everyone else. The difference is, I chose you. You can be the ice cream to my toppings, but you'll never be the surprising one out of the two of us.

You have that old-school vibe with your vintage pocketwatch and that sweater vest you wear when it's ninety outside. I laugh when you want me to. But sometimes, I laugh even when you don't want me to. Like when you ask me for help picking out clothes.You might have more class than a thrift shop, but you sure as hell don't have swag.

And when I get tired of speaking in English, and I want to speak in poetry or metaphors instead... you'll blow me off and tell me that we live nowhere near an ocean.

That's the point, you idiot.

You're the Great Salt Lake because you're a wannabe. Indian Ocean ain't calling because you're trying too hard to be anorexic and the Pacific ignores you because you have more sparkle than the rest of 'em.

But I love exceptions to the rule, and that you are, darling.

You're the only boy who talked about things that mattered. As well as things that didn't.

And I was waiting for you to hear me out, but when I turned to see the thoughts tumbling through your head, I couldn't even make out where your footprints had been beside me. And even though you didn't listen to me while I prayed at your feet, I keep running towards you.

Maybe I swore because I wanted to see if you loved me enough to keep listening, even if your bishop and your old bones told you to turn away. I wanted you to love me more than you liked me. And I never said you had to like me, even when I gave you the five senses. I'm not as pretentious as God.

Love is not expecting the words back that were borrowed. Love is checking your pockets while you're getting mugged, contributing all your forgotten pennies to the cause. Love is using Internet Explorer instead of Chrome, even if it might take ten minutes longer to get to the Google homepage. Love is kissing every scar on her wrist, even if the emotions bruise your lips. Love is two primary colors holding hands to make something new. Love is purchasing a song for $1.29 when you could just as easily download it free of charge. Love is the taste of sweat and blood. Love is thinking about you in turquoise. Love is poison. Love is the cure.

Because the truth is... I'm thinking about you like keyboards think about fingers, like black thinks about white, like opposites attract, and like the guitar thinks about the way you toy with her heart.

I'm thinking about you like stripes think about curves, like Ben and Jerry stay awake thinking up the newest ice cream flavor, like Romeo thought that he couldn't live without his Juliet. I'm thinking about you like my composition book thinks about the pens that mark up her memories. Like algebra thinks about finding her x. I think about you like Troy thinks about Vanessa, and like East High School thinks about its five minutes of fame.

I'm thinking about you like lips think about kissing, like Robert Smith thinks about Mary Poole, and like you think about your Homecoming date. I'm thinking about you like I think about God. And how I don't know whether I belong in heaven or hell, but at least hell has some personality. I'm thinking about you like I won't stop.

And dear Love, you've screwed me over enough. So please allow me this one boy with the blue eyes. Let me look back on our first kiss without having to close off my heart from feeling too hard and loving too much. Let me prove my mother wrong and let me get married in ten years. Please. Love, let me pray you stop feeling bitter about what Rejection did to you. Let me kiss you on the lips and tell you that you're beautiful. I don't know exactly what you look like, but you sure have a nice personality. So maybe you make a grand entrance with your silver ballgown and you win back your Prince Charming.

And maybe by then, you'll feel generous enough to share.