You,
I am sorry.
There is a thing or two about you that cannot be compassed by strangers, including me. It might be over much to ask of you to unfold the wellspring of your demeanour, so yes, I am suspending the idea, instantaneously.
Pardon me, I had spoken ill.
Some words are only said with the intent to counterattack. That, for a better grasp, is an acquired instinct of an unhealed person, as though every moment is a breaking point. You may not be considerate of my grounds but make room for a hearty discernment, I plead.
You were the rarest soul I have chanced upon in the four decades of my existence. It took me two thousand and twenty years to finally come across you. Although virtually, our intercommunication was stark felicity. Miles were nonexistent. I felt you close. God knew how I loved however your intensity was.
I will hold on to your thoughts evermore, with or without your presence. I miss the scolds, sweet nothings, the kinks, the giggles, and even the fights; I take all in. Can we diminish incompatibility with adjustability? Can we take this to a lower level just so to keep one another for good and all? Spare a little care?
Steadfastly,
Me
9:34 PM - April 30, 2020
