.

Dear you,

The multitudes that lies in the way I regard you, is forever lost. Seeing as it never came to light, even though I did lead you to the source, expectantly. These machinations ingrained within me, all but settled as rust into the skeleton of my mind. Desperately I tried to coax from you what I thought I was deserving of. But truly, all that I felt, some of it I still feel, was all imaginary. A beautiful & dark illusion. The produce of my own twisted mind. You are like a diamond. You reflect yet I thought you shined. Still, you are precious to me, not as you previously were perhaps but still.

Unforgiving is all that I am. I wanted from you what you could not, cannot ever, grant me. I have always known. Such attachment in my part. Always, in my part alone.

Regardless, you give to me what you can. What you give others. Equality. I think it is a strong suit in you. Impersonal.

My loyalty to you is not a thing of the past. It is battered I admit but it is rooted still in every sinew of my heart.

Never doubt that.

What this drunken confession aim to achieve is (as ever) something that eludes me.

I am Werther never in love. I am Meursault staring at the Sun, without a gun.

I confront my desires, aware of their aimlessness. Wanton and undirected.

Still this is not Love. Please never misconstrue this incognito feeling I feel for you as that lifeless imitation.

Very sincerely yours,
Me.

P.S. I'll recoil at this display by tomorrow, I'm sure. It's a vicious cycle. Longer hiatuses but unbroken.