Oh to be loved by a writer..

My dear, how can I not fall in pieces right now? During days like these I think about you and me as regular opposites. During days like these I read and search through every sentences just to find words used by you. I search for places described in the same way I would write about you. Places so terrifying to please our sight, places that I shudder at the thought of visiting them. I read sentences that left me so amazed to highlight them with my pencil, even though the one framing the title is the one that confuses me more. How can so many people dream about this privilege, privilege they will find "heavy". How can I find a good enough muse if all of them wait for us writers to arrive? Writers who pour ink like tears just to adore someone: a waste of ink for minds incapable of dreaming. So I write you this, hoping you won't be like all of them and knowing you won't ever find out abour my real nature. Nature I fear but not too much. So I write, about everything and nothing, with and without reasons. I write because it seems that this is the only way to love you.