I'm not sure if I miss you, or if I miss your presence. Because they are two different things, these missings. I could talk to you about how much I hated the world I live in, or I could talk to you about the unstitching of my favorite sweater. Everything had a point to you, everything sparked an interest. But it was so uncommon, the way we were. It was so uncommon. And, I suppose, things that are uncommon, they fade away. We all eventually conform to the way commoners expect us to.
If I saw you again, or heard your voice, or read your words, I am so confident that every bone in my body would grow stronger, all of my muscles would tense, and my thoughts would become so free. You had this key that unlocked the room in which my soul so often feels confined to. And I loved that about you. You made me free.
And you changed me in a way that I cannot forget, because this change has become an eternal accessory to my soul. I miss you greatly. But I don't know if I miss that person who unlocked the room, because he already unlocked it, and I'm not sure what more he could do. And I'm not sure if it's your presence, then, because we were so uncommon.
Such an uncommon love, but so beautiful.
And so, I hope you're doing okay. I hope life is treating you well. And I hope that your soul is aligned with the stars you sought. And I hope you think of me, like I think of you. Now I must go, before this letter takes me back to those strange days. Those uncommon days. Before I wish we could live in an uncommon world.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
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