Work Text:
byron,
i know you think i’m pathetic. well, you’d be right. here i am crying over your portrait, which isn’t even your best portrait by the way. if you were here you’d say one of two things. the first: “shut the fuck up you stupid girl” the second: “just let it all out”. i can’t tell which one is more likely in this situation. maybe both.
i know you don’t like the idolization of people (hypocrite, you idolized napoleon). you hated and loved celebrity and you’d probably scoff at me if you saw how much i adore you.
and yet i can’t seem to stop looking for hints of you everywhere i go. you are an enigma to me. when i saw your plaque at westminster abbey i felt you there, and when i was at your publishers former house i swear i could see the ghost of you walking up the steps. i stood where you have probably stood and i sensed you.
byron, i can’t even say anything. this letter is mushy and emotional and you’re probably laughing at me and rolling in your grave and i’m sorry seriously i’m not usually like this.
i can’t use the word love. that’d be dumb because you’re too good for love (even if you never believed it) and i don’t know if you even did ever love and plus you’re dead and that would be weird. i’ve been seeing you like this for too long for it to be infatuation. i idolize you. that sounds daft and scary, because lbr here, you’re not at all a good role model. but i understand you byron. sometimes i feel like you’re so close to me that i could reach out and grab you. and it’s terrifying.