I like the way you stroke and tease and tug at the English language with your tongue, the way those silly, endearing metaphors come tumbling out of your blasphemous mouth, riding on the easy waves of your speech. You must be sacred. In your hands language is like an instrument, and your fat fingers pluck carelessly at its strings, mere afterthoughts producing unadulterated brilliance. Or at least to my agnostic, uncultured, wanting self.

Superficially: I like how you personify tweed, how you say very good in that vaguely (and rightfully) condescending tone, how your unflattering hair flops, how your 5960292 chins wobble, and how you reprieve swear words from vulgarity, atone for their sins.

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My love for the love of language is possibly dangerous. It is unbearable to think how much I shall yield if I should meet someone half resembling you. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth both wanted a match of intellect, but I never cared much for Austen. Instead of finding a nice boy with GPA 3.80-ish, I suspect I shall spend most of my time being violently in love with young prodigies, gender unspecific.

Language binds my hands with rounds and rounds of silk when I write, and pulls.

Shipwrecked on the shore of my heart. It sounds like some overused cliche from those cheesy paperback pseudo porn novels. But like dirty laundry, turn it over a few times and it's almost acceptable. You are shipwrecked on the shore of my heart by the sea being violently ill, tossed up with bits of seaweed, dead jellyfish, chewed plastic bags, all of which are perfectly inconsequential in the great scheme of things. Assault my coconuts, rape my fruit trees, violate the gleaming sand with your imprints, send up huge columns of smoke with your crimes of arson, and be gone. Note that you never wanted to be here, and have every intention to leave.

The world is implicit, you can be my crude primary school math. My hello kitty mechanical pencil. My looney tunes eraser. My disney ruler with bumpy edges. My anti-calculator. My childish and unsubtle love - I was painfully obvious when I hit boys on their heads with my pink plastic file.