If being happy means inability to write, then hand me a pen. I want to be sad.

My love, I’m nothing but a graveyard of all the dead and ugly, all perished and broken. If you would dare to grasp my thorns, I couldn’t promise you it would be worth it.

Some words just don’t fit on paper.
Some things cannot simply be expressed in words.
Some sorrows are just too great to be written.

Some ache we just cry.

Listen carefully to my silence,
it speaks louder than any words
my lips could utter.

"Just think about beautiful things."

So, I get a paper scented with daffodils, a plumage brimming with love—and think of you.