To my future lover:

I hope you won’t get mad at me for leaving tea bags on our apartment sink. Sometimes I get lost in thoughts I forget to clean it up.

I hope you won’t mind that I suddenly wake up at three in the morning. My mind has probably brewed something noteworthy again. Please, get back to sleep. And let me write about how peaceful you breathe.

Please don’t get mad that I excessively stare at you in the most random times; I’m always dumbfounded with your ecstatic beauty—I’ve never seen such beauty like the starlit night sky. Your eyes shout the most soothing melody that the words slipping from your mouth become background noise.

I’m sorry that I get tensed often times, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or too much caffeine in my system, but I assure you, it’s never about you—I can never have too much of you.

I promise that every letter I write will be infused with your love, and every word will be pervaded with your smoky-vanilla scent and every dot will not be an end, but another beginning. Another chapter. I am the author, and you are my muse. I will write until your name is engraved on my bones.