The first words...

My dearest
I don't believe I have ever written you a word before this moment. It was not for lack of care nor for lack of fondness, but for the lack of the right words. For the lack of the right presence. For the lack of the correct permission; for the lack of a way to get to you. A way to settle within you, a path from me to you, a way for you to get to me. To open doors I didn't know existed just for you. To have these doors talk for me. To have myself talk through them. I didn't write not for the obliviousness but for the absurdity: the irony of the times, the places, the inappropriateness, the unsuitable situations, and the uncomfortable positions we had to endure.
I didn't write not because I didn't know what to write, but because I didn't know where to write. I didn't have an address to send it to; I didn't have a key to the imaginary doors that only we saw. I have lost and gained you for so many years. I had forgotten your scent for so long and I didn't even know if it would smell the same. I didn't know if my words would still match your face. I didn't know if my words would have found your hands. I didn't know what they would have done if they had found yours. I didn't know if they would have settled in your fingers or just hurt them. I only knew what the grip had done to them. And as much as I hated that grip, I couldn't have let the one thing I knew how to do hurt you. I couldn't have given you anything other than complete and utter assurance. I'd wonder what if this word, instead of reaching your sweetest self, reached your harshest. What if those words, which I bring from my deepest self, get lost in you and I get lost with them?
And now, my darling, I write to you. Not because I have healed, nor because I have learned. Not because I'm assured or because I can assure you. I write to you because I simply can not stop myself from writing to you. The moment I hold a pen and a piece of paper, I find my words going back to you, or they might be going forward to you. I don't exactly know when in my life you stopped existing or when you re-existed. However, I do know you exist. I know you have been within me through the years. And I know, no matter what my words were or are, you've always been their muse. My muse.