Packing. Remembering.

I am packing my room because my parents are moving. Where? I don't really know. And I'm old so I shouldn't care? I do care, MAMA! DADDEE! Any ways, whilst packing I find things that make me reminisce, like this love poem. . . . we were weird in high school . . .
To My Love
You are so hot.
When I see you it makes me sad.
Sad that I wasn't seeing you before I just now had the opportunity to see you.
You are so hot.
I want to tell you you're hot.
I do tell you that you are hot sometimes but I want to tell you more.
You are so hot.
I have this name I call you.
Sometimes I call you it behind your back but I also call it to you to your face.
You are so hot.
Bend over one more time.
Sometimes I just drop things so that I can see you pick them up.
You are so hot.
I talk about you a lot.
That's because I think you're really really cool and worthy of being talked about a lot.
You are so hot.
Like fire, really.
Not in a literal sense, but sometimes you are so hot I worry it may actually be literal.
You are so hot.
It hurst my eyes to look at you.
It feels like you are shooting fiery darts into my eyes; in a good way and I like it . . . but it still hurts.
You are so hot.
My heart burns for you.
Oh my heart, it burns. Not really because of you, but because I have heartburn. But it still burn, and it is my heart.
You are so hot.
You could be a air hostess in the 60's.
Not really from the 60's though because that would make you about 69 years old, possibly older.
You are so hot.
You are so so hot.
I don't know if you know me, actually I know you don't know me because you once said you didn't , but I love you . . . a lot. And not just because you're hot.