Angel,
Maybe it's a little late for that, maybe I should have written you more a few months ago, I apologize. Anyway I couldn't give up saying, although I doubt you'll ever read this, you know I'm a hard little thing to give things up.
I think about you, not just reading your stories or words, but I think about you in every little detail that marked us so deeply that even now it is still inside my heart and marked with words written by steel feathers in my guts.
I think about you sleeping next to the stuffed octopus, feeling the cotton as if it were the only piece of you that stayed with me. Think about you running my fingers over the pen marks under the paper, following your letters, hearing your voice and feeling the feelings you felt as you wrote that. I think about you when I pass my broken mailbox. Think about you with smells, tastes, colors, sensations and emotions. Our love had soul, fueled by the flame in our cores, wild and bright as dawn. It will never die as long as I live, darling, because I'll never let it happen - then it'll be buried with me when a headstone is laid over my body, ending every single dream I ever had and a life I don't want to live next to anyone else if it's not you.
You said you want to love us forever, but I do. Even if decades go by, you are entwined in my fingers, and there isn't a day that my heart doesn't beat for you. I miss you as much as I miss myself.
Eu te amo, exatamente da mesma maneira que amei desde janeiro.
Yours,
S.
