Hello there, my love. I'm sorry I haven't been writing about you lately. To be honest, I've been out of ideas. My light bulb kinda needs to be replaced. I overgrew in writing pieces about you. I'm exhausted emotionally, and it felt like it left a tremendous void in my heart. The river has been watered out, and it left a huge and long path of dry, cracking soil.
I'm also out of ink lately and got no plans of refilling it. Because if I ever hold that pen again, and fill it once more, it will just look like a
machine with a purpose but will only be left out until it crumbles, or at least until all the ink inside dried out.
Now, I don't want you to be angry at me. And I might be now wanting your forgiveness, but hear me first. All I wanted was you writing about me because I am tired of writing about you — I am tired of loving the idea of you, and loving you, without you reciprocating the same love and emotions I have for you. I am tired of suffering and afraid of losing all things I've had. I shed tears, but I didn't want you to see them. I don't want you to see how broken I am. I don't want you to see how I crawl on the ground slowly just to feel your feet and see you right above me when I look.
But I conquered the fear of losing someone I once loved — you.
I may not be the best writer out there, but I am the best writer you could ever have had. I guarantee you that.
But if you didn't really appreciate me, appreciate my works — those painstaking pieces of papers with solemn words engraved on them, then I will have no choice but to leave you at once.
And find someone more deserving to read and understand what I do for love, and feel what I feel; find someone whose love is capable of handling mine.
Find someone worthy to love so much, and loves someone as worthy as me back.