Dear somebody-that-I-could-fall-in-love-with,

I'd bake you cupcakes, once in a while, probably randomly, in the middle of the night.
You don't even really like cupcakes, because honestly, who could eat more than one? But I'd bake you them. They'd be bite-size, and they'll come in many flavors, because I know you like variety.  Chai, almond, lemon-poppy, vanilla, chocolate, tres leches. You'll have a favorite.

And you'll still be in the shadows of some old love. Or you're really jaded, and well, sex is sex, is kind of awesome. We all want love, but my god, these youthful bodies weren't meant to be wasted with pining & on imperfect timing. I mean, Romeo was in love with Rosaline 'til it was Juliet, and if he hadn't died from all the much needed excitement & drama, it'd probably be Beatrice next.
We'd be more of the Dante & Beatrice kind of people, by the way. Less by choice, and more by inherent nature; we have issues with romance & reality. We love from afar, on pedestals, with disinterest, have muses & ideals. And we write. Plenty of writing, but all of it, in our own private spaces.

When we're close, in the decisive moment, before growing distant, or close, I'll love the idea I've got of you. You'll love the naked visage of me. I'll realize, that I love kissing you.

We'll forget who we're supposed to be, shed those selves, favorite t-shirts for warm skin. Barriers.

In wet and soft, and hard-pressing mouths, I'll find myself.
I am a lockpick with a set of keys, and you are full of old, locked doors. In your hallway, my bare toes'll trace along the wooden floorboards, carefully caressing over the dark, cool grain. Water damage.
 
And this is how I will love you.

And I'll know it's love, and not just sex, because after doing it with you, I'm going to want to do it again, because it starts so much like a fire, a thing of heat & hunger, and consuming, because it's all about having, and I will have you, soul & body of my taking.