This is not a love letter, for love is yet uncertain. You may not mean love to me, but you’re the closest one that I got, and so this is for you.
You are a dream, and sometimes, I wish to never be awake and just dream. I see the best visions of you when I’m in my subconscious, for what’s impossible becomes possible, what’s unrealistic becomes realistic, what’s vague becomes solid, what’s blurry becomes unmistakable. You make the difference.
You’re not my everything, but everything is forgotten when I see you. And I am with you all the time – my thoughts, my emotions, my weakness and strength. Your scent echoes and my heart drums with it, and eventually I found myself running out of torment. I am all safe and calm.
This is going to be momentary, they say. I hear them, but I refuse to listen. I am adamant by nature, and I settled myself upon that portrayal. I chose to pose for the portrait of the role I put myself in.
I am aware of the fact that you’re not mine. I am not yours either, yet I act as if I am because it feels better. There’s never a thing like us. There’s just you, and I. Us is just an illusion. We is an apparition. But you and I is close to reality, and sometimes, reality is all I have to hold on to — because sometimes, I am awake.
I am not as beautiful as them. I don’t shine. They’ve got everything laid before you, while I am here, with nothing but vehement hopes that maybe if I write you prose, you’ll give me a glance in return.
This is prosaic. I write what you won’t read, and then that’s it. Yet I am enthralled. The moments of you and I together pacifies my longing, for I know that everything is evanescent, and that “Nothing stays forever” is more than just a cliche. I long for you, and this will express my longing. My hopes will linger, and as long as you’re not telling me to stop, I’ll keep on writing…