I want to write my lover letters. I’m not talking about post-it notes strategically placed here and there to remind him of me throughout the day. I’m not talking about short postcards to tell him that I’m thinking of him. I want to write him love letters in the grand spirit of the Adamses, the Brownings, and Keats.

I want to use superfluous language, grandiose concepts, and poetic verse to tell him that he is loved. I fancy telling him that the way he hurt me last night made me love him more, ache for more, hunger for more. I desire to dance with him in the world of words, to float upon the euphoric clouds of adoration.

I want to remind him that I’m smitten with him. I hope he knows that every day brings a new experience to be treasured because it includes him.

Writing good love letters seems to be a lost art. Writing them in long hand, with the perfect pen and good paper seems to be passé. I want my lover to know that each sweeping motion of my hand to paper has a thought, a glimmer, a piece of him woven into it.

—

Abigail Adams to John Adams, her husband, December 23, 1782

My Dearest Friend,

…should I draw you the picture of my heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied.

I look back to the early days of our acquaintance and friendship as to the days of love and innocence, and, with an indescribable pleasure, I have seen near a score of years roll over our heads with an affection heightened and improved by time, nor have the dreary years of absence in the smallest degree effaced from my mind the image of the dear untitled man to whom I gave my heart.

—

To Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

…would I, if I could, supplant one of any of the affections that I know to have taken root in you – that great and solemn one, for instance. I feel that if I could get myself remade, as if turned to gold, I WOULD not even then desire to become more than the mere setting to that diamond you must always wear.

The regard and esteem you now give me, in this letter, and which I press to my heart and bow my head upon, is all I can take and all too embarrassing, using all my gratitude.

- Robert Browning
(1812-1889)

—

Wednesday Morng. [Kentish Town, 1820]

My Dearest Girl,

I have been a walk this morning with a book in my hand, but as usual I have been occupied with nothing but you: I wish I could say in an agreeable manner. I am tormented day and night. They talk of my going to Italy. ‘Tis certain I shall never recover if I am to be so long separate from you: yet with all this devotion to you I cannot persuade myself into any confidence of you….

You are to me an object intensely desirable — the air I breathe in a room empty of you in unhealthy. I am not the same to you — no — you can wait — you have a thousand activities — you can be happy without me. Any party, anything to fill up the day has been enough.

How have you pass’d this month? Who have you smil’d with? All this may seem savage in me. You do no feel as I do — you do not know what it is to love — one day you may — your time is not come….

I cannot live without you, and not only you but chaste you; virtuous you. The Sun rises and sets, the day passes, and you follow the bent of your inclination to a certain extent — you have no conception of the quantity of miserable feeling that passes through me in a day — Be serious! Love is not a plaything — and again do not write unless you can do it with a crystal conscience. I would sooner die for want of you than —

Yours for ever
J. Keats