dearling, darling.
I start to write the words and always take them back because there are secret things happening between us and I don’t have the means to describe them. There are feelings— innate, secret, important, perfect and lovely— that I cannot even begin to explain. I want to write you novels on the palms of my hands and between my fingers, on the backs of my knees, and behind my ears, and I could use every last word in the dictionary and foreign languages and pictures and colors and none of it would, for one single moment, fully explain the way I feel when I wake up in the morning and remember that you exist. You are worth volumes of written word, and yes, it is simply miraculous that you exist.
