Lonely

A/N: Hi yall! Here's an angsty romance poem for ya. Oh, and I finished the next chapter of "Hygienator" a long time ago, but I won't get off my lazy butt to post it. I'm afraid I've been a bit busy with Treasure Planet, Santa Clause, and Narnia. (I just realized that none of my fandoms have anything to do with each other. Hmm.)

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"You're beautiful, it's true. There must be an angel with a smile on her face, when she thought up that I should be with you. But it's time to face the truth: I will never be with you."

--James Blunt, "You're Beautiful"

And I'm sprawled out on the sofa, two letters in hand.

One is in a bright red envelope, speckled with candy canes. The other is in a standard Phoenix envelope, with the Galactic Military emblem.

Both are beautiful.

The one with the candy canes reads: "Hey, Ratchet! When are you going to answer my dang letters already?! Just kidding ya, mac. Hope you're having a great Christmas..." And so forth. It ends, "Love, Angela."

Why does that girl keep writing me? That annoying, nagging, amazing girl?

The more official letter requests the "honour" of my presence at a company Christmas party of sorts. A chance for the troops far from their home planets to have good memories of this holiday season. "Sincerely, Commodore Sasha Wellington."

When Sasha writes "sincerely", does she really mean it?.

Two letters.

Two wonderful creatures.

I could never be with them. I could never deserve to ask one of them to share my life.

But if I could, which one would I pick?

Angela?

She and I are so similar. We're both hardheaded. We both like sports. We both fly off the handle sometimes. And we both hate the Bogon Galaxy.

I could go on and on.

I love her.

But what about Sasha?

She's not like me at all. Heck, she's not even the same species as me.

And she's everything that I am not. Logical. Cautious. Brave. Understanding.

Beautiful.

I love her, too.

Yet how could I have either of them?

Angela is in another galaxy. Sasha is not, but she might well be; she's a decorated officer. I'm just a sergeant.

I have to let them go. I have to.

"When are you going to answer my dang letters?"

"R.S.P.V."

I grab a pen and a notebook, throw the notebook open, scrawl hasty words down. "Dear Angela, I love you so much it hurts. But please, leave me alone."

Rip the page out of the notebook, and write again, furiously. "Dear Sasha, I love you so much it hurts. But please, leave me alone."

Rip the page out of the notebook.

And I throw these letters, along with Angela and Sasha's letters, into the trash.

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Ah, angst. The bread and butter of a fanfic writer. Review? Merry Christmas!