I have never understood the aim, concept and purpose of letters. All I know is letters are where you combine ink and what your heart says. Basically, it is where you pour everything that's in your heart through a piece of paper.

you are the only person i'd stay awake at 2AM for.
the person i'd never get tired complimenting.
this letter would go on a thousand pages if i write everything i feel when you talk to me.
i think you're perfect and that I don't deserve you. i love all your flaws. i love you.

i want to make you believe you are lovely.

In the depths of desire,
when love is drowning into unknown spheres;
There raises a lotus
in the form of 'Hope'
and helps love to stay afloat

In reality
I could not
keep him,
so instead
I wrote him
into every line
and weaved him
into every story
so that
he and I
could live
forever.

I hope
the miles
of paper
I filled
and
the oceans
of words
I wrote
tell you more
than my
hopelessly
tongue-tied
self
ever could.

How much do I love you?

Hold your breathe until you can't hold it any longer.
That feeling of wanting to breath... that's how much I love you.

Look at the ocean, and its wide expanses that you can only see a small fraction of.
The size of that ocean is as much as I love you.

Look up at the stars. There are trillions of them. There are far more than we will ever know about.
The expanse of those stars doesn't equal how much I love you.

Now look me in the eye. My eyes have seen the beauty of the world. But nothing as beautiful as you.
That is how much I love you.

I love you more than I love being able to breath, My love for you is larger than the water I need to survive. My love for you is so much more than anyone could ever understand. My love of your beauty is more than my love of any other thing to ever exist.
And that,
Is how much I love you.

I feel like a ripple in the harbor.
Throwing myself against
the Hull of your chest.
A place I used to call home.

Not far from Beason
liquid green
caresses silt that has
always pumped life
into this broken city.
A city where sirens and
church bells sound the same
if you just listen
to the hum of floating taxis
circulating you straight to
the heart of a
civilization learning to collect illumination.

I drag my feet along E. Pratt
listening to the whispers of our past,
a quiet riot in the distance.

Somewhere in this city
a woman is taking her son's hand
for the last time
a brother is tanking
his last free throw
somewhere
a daughter scribbles
her name in side walk chalk
one
final
time.

These children were the
city's flesh and blood.
Fells point in their bones;
a piece of Pigtown in every cell.

We've learned from
our mistakes that
burning down convenience stores
doesn't make life more convenient,
but owning a gun does.
What is the cost of protection
when you're not the one paying the price?

I hope that one day
we will build upon the ashes
and Light Street will burn bright again.