To whom it may and most certainly concern,
This is a letter written in light of the past work of poetry. Poetry is however a loose term in this case. Poetry in that modern-day sense in which teens may express their hyperactive hormones by passing it off as "art" and "true expression" when, in fact, it's an excuse to brag, whine, or otherwise call more attention to themselves. This note is written to and for the Other. It may never reach him due to cowardice on my part or more importantly tact because sometimes even the most talented writers cannot make what they feel come across accurately, in flesh or spirit or prose.
I'm tired of crying for your namesake. This has gone on over a year now and as much as I love you (and don't dare deny it and accuse me of replacing you because it would never happen. I've tried.) we cannot continue this. We both know this doesn't have a future and perhaps it was my tiny hope that would that has lead me, us, here. I'm the marrying type. You were the beginning of my wild streak and now, having caused a great mess for myself and others, are finished. This chapter will end with you. Come to think of it, this has always been your chapter in my life. Your name may have well been permanently engraved into the binding from the heavy ink stains of my passion, both love and loathing.
If you think poorly of me after this, I understand and don't blame you for it. A tease. A slut. A child. A psychotic bitch. I have felt like one of each of these titles at some point during our trials and took no pride in them. I just hope that if you love me the way you claimed you do/did, that you can respect my choice to move on. Like you said you would. The truth is I'm happy for the first time in a year even though my timing is way off. I could've driven to see you for your birthday. My alibi was solid, my gas money secured, but I chose to stay and be good. It's probably for the best. If I had, I would've given you this speech in person for your 24th. A most memorable occasion, I'd say.
I love you. Truly. You are the one I can be completely honest and not feel judged or isolated for being smart or stupid or girly or horny or just weird me and know by talking with you have fed one of those without guilt. I love you more than I can write. The strongest thing I've felt my entire teenage life, but there is no future for us. To choose between you and my family? Forbidden. I couldn't do it. As much as I'm terrorized by tyranny and patriarchy, I love them. I am bound to them. I refuse to waste any more tears on this matter. Not for peacekeeper's sake, but for my own heavy heart.   
When I said "If you need something, call." and that my door is always open for you, I meant it. I don't care if you come knocking fifty years from now and just shot a man, I would open my door for you because I love you.
Keep the book if you want it that badly. Despite my sentimental attachment to that particular copy and its notes, I can always buy another. Those notes in the margins were written for you. I loved that book, but I want to make this as easy as possible.
I could lie and say I'll wipe you from memory; forget that blissful morning and seeing Ironman for the second time. I could shove the image, the feeling, the taste of your kisses away from the forefront of my mind. Maybe I could even stop fantasizing about our beautiful life together and all that entail. But I could never forget you. You mean too much to me, to who I am now. I fear I will forever be your Fool.
Your young foolish lover,