I wanted to write stories full of breezes, of filtered rays where dust motes danced. And then I loved the writers who made you look through every line, to gaze downward and feel the vertigo of the depths, the blackness of inferno.

As time goes on, you'll understand. What lasts, lasts; what doesn't, doesn't. Time solves most things. And what time can't solve, you have to solve yourself.

This is love, to sit with someone you've known forever in a place you've been meaning to go, and watching as their life happens to them until you stand up and it's time to go.

This emptiness and darkness have become a home.

How can we miss someone knowing they are the worst thing happened to us?
How can we long for them knowing that they betrayed and left us for another soul?
How can we still see them as a good person even though they tried to kill us by breaking abandoning our hearts?
How?

“we eat each other’s words, hearts, what’s the difference?”

I’m still not sure. I still don’t know why I’m writing to you. Perhaps I’m not writing to you as much as I’m writing to the part of my past tied to you.

I write you completely whole and I feel a pleasure in being and my pleasure of you is abstract, like the instant.

I fell in love with her when she reminded me that miracles exist, then hopelessly in love with her when she reminded me that she’s the reason why I still believe that healing from my depression is possible. She makes me feel possible like there’s nothing I couldn’t do as long as I stay in the energy of her light. She makes me feel courageous, resilient, thankful, strong, and all the pleasant feelings that keep the sunshine in me in a state of glowing especially in darkness. She’s my healer, my greatest friend and my favorite person in the world which I now see in full brightness.