My love,

So here I am. Writing to you, or writing about you, or writing about me and you. I love you and I know we will never be lovers. That's okay because there's this overwhelming sense of fullness in every moment we spend together. That makes it okay.

I realise that this decidedly messy alignment of letters will never truly epitomise the brightness of your idosyncrasies, but romanticism is on life support and we need to do something, anything, before they turn off the machines. So I'm escaping the pretence. I'm not going to be afraid of admitting it anymore. This is it:

It's you. It's always been you. The crippling reality of it is that for you, it's never been me. Was it ever half of me? I hope not - it's the halves that halve you in half. I suppose I must just accept that although you are my ocean, I am a puddle you jumped over long ago. You've filled my lungs so all I can breathe in is you. It's like drowning but you never die. It never ends.

I swear to God I hope it never does. I hope my words touch you in places my hands can't. Smile at the world, my sweetness.