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I adore you. I truly do.

In normal circumstances, I would say that I have an overwhelming desire for you. I would have an odd curiosity, and ask so many questions about you, and only you. But, I have come to realize that you are a phenomenon; someone so much more than anything normal.

In every moment I lay my eyes on you, I feel nothing but a surge of comfort. I can stare at those drunken eyes for eternity and sink into you. I badly yearn to engage in an endless stream of conversation with you, not only because of all the stories I have kept in heart, but also because of how you always manage to open up to me, play along, and show the vulnerable, heart-warming side of us. Yes! I am inquisitive of where the river would take us, but no; if I can just drift alongside you without any worries of what might come, I will simply – voluntarily – play along with the red strings of fate. It is not adoration that was born out of infatuation. As I became older and encounter many delicate souls, I have finally found resolution in you. During the years before I took notice of you, I was preparing for this very emotion. An emotion so pure, yet unyielding.

For the first time, I daresay that I adore you, not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I'm around you.

To my almost, my long lost hope.

It seemed that we were so near to the idea of love, no? Yet, the intertwining strings of fate did not bring us near enough; near enough to grasp and grant the notion of us. Of course, almost does not mean anything in particular. It does not change the fact that we, indeed, failed to unite. It just adds more to the aching pain; to the desperation. I just adored you a lot more than I should, for in the end, a little too much never gave me any good. It never gave me the relation I longed for – it was never adequate.

So, I devote this to you: my almost, the figure who anguished us.

Best believe that I am still enamored, and will always be.

If anyone ever asks why, I myself have no clue to the answer. Yet, that one particular morning has been imprinted on my recollections: the way you smiled at me after waking up on bed, how cozy you smelled, and the way we conversed over my signature pancakes. That morning never gets old, and what I believe became the reason why. The universe never gave me an exact answer, though. It could probably be because of the truth that that morning can never be repeated again, or perhaps, it is the way we crossed paths every single day. Indeed, our story is something infrequent that was so beautiful; so vulnerable. Hence, if someday the story continues, the contentment — the euphoria — should last for eternity. That is what I believe in, and what I believe would occur sometime in the future. Please know that I would be very willing to make those pancakes again, just for you.

Like the infinite sunlight, it was the kind of love that never got old.

There is more to our relationship than mere words; a certain point where we are able to understand each other without making a single sound. That is a kind of love that I have always yearned for in you; in every single people I meet. Picture this: you giving me ice cream when you know I feel a certain frustration that I can't explain with words; me gripping your hand tight as a form of support; no words needed. Beautiful, isn't it? To reach a level of understanding that does not need explaining. It takes time, of course. So, allow me to spend that time with you and grow old together, until doom tear our unity apart.

Thereafter, our soul may not be one anymore, but our love will grow for eternity; it will never get old.

My palms. You held it. And up until this second, I am still in disbelief. Of course, the idea of my feelings being reciprocated is already a disbelief itself, but everything you did drove me to insanity. If only I can relive the scene, I would probably be stuck in a time loop simply because it's an overwhelming emotion; an emotion I don't want to let go. Hence, I shall wait for the day you grab my palms again. Kiss it, if you might. I shall go to heaven and back just for you. That is how much I would cherish you, my one and only darling.

Written with love, to love.

I wish you well, my little one.

It was a love so delicate and an enchantment so subtle; with you, everything felt as light as a feather. I once knew an adoration so gentle, but that is, until my soul acknowledged your presence. Every recollection of you and I became surreal, and rather euphoric; my lazy slumber on a sunny Sunday come true; my sweet grapes in the bright springtime. Thus, let the moments of us be a distant memory — easy to recall, easy to cherish with my heart's might.

A light breeze. It came and went by. Thus, will I ever get a hold of you? Will I ever understand you?

I currently wish for nothing but to comprehend your mind and its complexity. Your likes and dislikes, your favorite ice cream flavor, your humor, your future goals, your childhood memories, your traumas, your phobias, your secrets, your taste in music, your pet peeves, your jersey's number, your role model, your first love; the good and the bad, I want to know it all. Ask me why, and I will tell you, that this wish of mine started from you. All my life, people simply passed me by; but you did not. You stayed, managed to catch my eye, and keep me preoccupied, like a breeze teasing me. Interesting, isn't it? That the reason why I want to dive deeper into you is because of you and none other than you.

It's light. You never made a burden to me. You were refreshing, youthful, and adoring. And I wanted you to stay. So, please, allow me to heal your wounds with love. Open up your feelings, and I shall open mine as well. After all, we are just humans longing for unity and care, aren't we?

Day by day, year by year, everything feels just the same; the morning routine, the (school/work), the people. And my exhaustion has always been the same as well. When those lazy Sundays come, I wake up the same, and I get drained the same. Day by day, year by year, nothing has changed. Even the girl next door has not changed. Thus, do not seek for me in midst of the crowd in a subway train, or in the coin laundry washing my dirty garments, for you will not find me. Do not seek for my soul, for it has been lost in a stack of my endless tasks. Instead, give me your prayers; give me your wishes. Someday, you might find me running in the middle of the woods, or pouring my thoughts into a dead object, or even falling off from the sky. That might be me, trying. That shall be me, trying – trying to discover something different amongst all the same things; trying to recover my lost soul. Someday, I will return as someone new; someone who has discovered a new kind of exhaustion. Probably a type of exhaustion that brings joy into my heart. Then maybe – just maybe – I can be something less tiring.

Shall my soul float away when I’m in your arms, let it be in joy or sorrow, I would lay forever in your embrace — if that is one possibility out of the millions. I have longed for the conceit that time would stop ticking in your presence, for you have made my life calmer in the midst of our bustling, hustling lives. And yet, what is a conceit if not overlooked by the clouds up above? Thus, I can only dream for the warmth of your embrace to last for seconds, hours, months, or even decades more than mine. This is so, for my idle soul will find you once more: intertwined and reunited as we mold into one. And then, my love, the tales both you and I have shall remain alive for eternity as us.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, I shall seek for you in a distant light, as the constellation dawns closer upon earth — To have you fully within my grasp, without a single stumbling block. Under the somber dusk, I implored upon the moon to hold you dearly; to beam luminously following your presence, and this has been nothing but a servile, genuine wish of mine.

“The moon is beautiful, isn't it?”, often a phrase of adoration I mutter every now and then. Yet, in time, I have come to speak of you ofttimes — A phrase of hope, sung at every sundown, pleading for the beam to come once more. In this life, and the next, and the next, in perpetuity. Well, I can finally perish joyously, knowing the heavens became the sole witness to my wishes.

At times, when my intellect speaks ever too often, my recollections of you slips away, little by little. Should all the little things vanish, will I not be able to recall you? Will I unlearn how to subsist in your presence? Or will it simply be the concept of you in my life that shall fall apart?

If, by any unusual chance, you would dawn upon my intellect once more, let it be the soul that you have grown into in this very present moment Not because of the prospect of second opportunities, but rather the fact that at heart, I cannot fathom the maddening reality of someone perceiving me as the same old soul that I was at the time we crossed paths. It is — all at once — fortunate and unfortunate, that lifelong parallel paths barely exist, for only the most cherished lives stay with us in this tale we call life.

On that grounds, I seldom wish that each soul I have intertwined with should witness every rendition of me until my very last breath. Yet, I know I flourish for no one's sake but mine. Thus, I should bestow the wish upon you instead — for my eyes to view at least another rendition of you; never looking back upon the former concept of you.