I take comfort knowing you will never
read this. Even if you are, there's no
way you could ever know. But you will
never read this because you do no exist.
You are what appears when I think
about a person I once knew. A
manifestation meant to keep me
moving forward. Who are you now?
Who have you become without my
eyes, my hands, my lips to taste?

I've written countless letters that you
will never read. I've drawn the sweetest
parts of you as I can remember them
so that when I fall asleep my mind
will assemble them into a version of
you that you have never seen.

If it were me I'd keep you away from
me. I've seen what I have seen, what I
can do, what I have been. I was there,
and I would ruin you. The I that I was,
the I that I see, the I that stares back at
me. Hidden, faded beneath the skin,
an image, an impression, a trace of
someone you might recognize. If you
had eyes to see. Yours are the only two
fit to lay rest upon the scene that falls
before you. As hard as it is to imagine,
as you are, the me that I am, and the
you that I see, fit together perfectly.

Nothing and nothing makes infinity.
Yours and mine makes exactly what
we need it to be. Altogether lovely in
our own little way. You and I've got
nothing that nobody can take away.