My dearest beloved.
This sickness that ails me binds me to burden. A burden that which you must carry. Ever so heavy my heart grows with each passing of the day. The thought of you crosses my mind as I lay here, my body growing stale and weak. Oh how I wish I could unchain you and set you free, my voluntary slave. A servant to my every need, you do what's needed without whine or complaint. For that I am in debt, a debt that'll never be paid.
Why do you help this weak and sickly man? For many a time we have fought and endured strife. Though we've had more good than the bad. We had always liked to indulge in laughter by each other's side, and loved to hold each other and speak of the good times held by both parties. Maybe what you say is true, that you do your best out of love, and not pity.
Love, such a dangerous game we played. We've burned each other, brought each other down, but we've always managed to get back up and dust each other off. I guess that's what love is, not what the films make it out to be. It's to hate, cry, laugh, and enjoy life together. Not the idealistic perfect life of sunshine and picket fences. That's too good, the boredom would set in and leave the beings wanting for more than what they had. But us? Oh no, we laughed with the sinners and cried with the saints.
As my body fails, let this be the thing you think of when I'm gone, dearest. You've given me the best days of my life, and for that you are truly the one and only person for me.
I love you.
Goodbye
