Dear C,

With such soul misplaced, my callous frame intertwining its movements with your own, that feral note bedding each iris: I allowed a musical laughter to pass throughout my throat and kiss each of your ear lobes. My heart was so cold, but I grinned so surely. "I am no longer broken," I lied, anticipating your approval as I facade my own. So much so that I nearly caught myself believing, believing that I was anything other than who I have always been. Believing that if I was something pure, beautiful, and lily-white in your sight, than perhaps I would grow to be such a lovely thing.

You sat aside my shaken spine as I told you of what was truth and afterward, I abandoned you into the solitude needed to process each nightmare shared. I abandoned you with on my front porch, partly expecting you retreat from your thoughts of me and discover someplace else you needed to be. Yet, you only followed each foot print I painted with a forced quiet pace and reached for my trembling fingers like I was frightened, like I was in need of consolation, (like you had just introduced a world of excruciating pain and daunting demons and shadows that catch you at the heels of your feet, only to laughed wickedly once all balanced is lost) into my safe perception.

The significant pecks your hands made with mine, the quick reminders you made with your lips: those that ran like honey down my cheeks to nestle within the crook of my neckline, the scent that left hiding inside the tiny grain-like threads of cotton in your shirt to envelope me thoughtless, the knowing smile that inched slowly up and across your jaw line as you said, "You cannot scare me away." Each and every that built screams against the lining of my stomach, awaiting only my order to scurry past the tunnels of my body, until you finally found reason to turn and walk away.

It has taken attempt afterward attempt to illustrate this single letter onto means meant for viewing. Writing used to be quite similar to talking for myself. I would merely sit and allow the deep, metaphoric verses to flow from my brain into my fingers and onto paper. I wanted to be remembered, I wanted so badly to be remembered and writing was that opened door that led me closer to being just that. Although, somewhere along the rocky way, I lost it. I lost it all. I lost that one, momentous desire to ever be remembered as anything ever again. And with that, my voice vanished.

It is a lovely feeling to sense for yourself that you know someone greatly. Not only does it facade a certain grasp on over all knowledge, but the very act of loneliness diminishes within the second that you wrongly agree that two people can be resembled as one. There are simply so many various angles to one soul's basic criteria, not to let alone mention those above and below average. Meeting a sole personal is a lot like conversing with hundreds of different people whom care to own the same vocal standards. I believe that there is never one soul, one heart, nor one mind within one employed body. And I believe that the millions and millions in which house themselves inside my own exterior are just exceptionally difficult to mingle against.

Running on little or no words to speak, I began to quote authors or other phenomenal folk, as if perhaps they carried the ability to act out like entertainers, what I must relieve from this small cage in which surrounds my being. The only man who seemed to have any sheer idea as to what I cannot say was Jonathan Safran Foer, who once wrote: "I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others -- The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad." And it is true. Sometimes those revealed as the most selfish, still are those whom keep thoughts and senses buried from others, because if such things can do what all is awful to themselves, what on earth could it do to those it was never meant for?

I am the way that I am for reasons even I, myself do not understand. All that I know is that I used to be different; better and now, I am not. Even though it pains me, it could never offend me -- the reasons as to which you finally escaped my tightening grasp. For I, I understand. With each great and beautiful thing, comes forth a sorrow most dreadful, for no good can ever be felt without its bad. I am proof of that. There is a bewildered magic inside each vein I possess, veiling many of what you have never seen of myself before. There is a sunlight hidden just within my irises, beneath the shadows of giant nights. There are gardens of the most riveting blossoms hidden just within my nail beds, beneath the shadows of full bellied lands. There are worlds upon worlds just beyond my temples and all that pains me is that you may never discover the chance to see them for yourself.

My father always said, "Women love men for who they want them to be, all while men love women for who they are." I always told him, I would be his exception. And I am now. I love you for who you are. I love you for your prolonged intimacy and ever need to collide my skin with yours. I love you for your large, round eyes that remind me of floating forests up and over the sea. I love you for your rough hands, which hold in them everything you have ever touched, wish to touch, and will touch by the thick linings of scarred skin visible. I love you for your heights: emotionally, physically, and mentally. I love you for your humor, that which tickles each sensitive portion of my heart and soul with every touch. And I love you for your kindness, your kindness which guides and loves without judgment, betrayal, or veiling purposes. I love you for your endeavors to understand, even though the impossibility is clear within sight. I love you for your mouth and the way it pecks my forehead, when every piece of myself has fallen astray into the grass. I love you for everything you are, right at this very moment, and I do not want to ever have to love you for who you were.

May we freeze time when we are joyful and proud, for things like our love never last forever, no matter how much I wish to the Gods that they would.