When ink outlast words.

I don't know how to begin this letter, friend. So I ask of you with the mercy that I believe you reserve to accept my ignorance, for I assure you that words do not speak for the heart. They are merely excuses, feeble signs, the last resort; symptoms that the lost can show.

The truth is, I did not find you after a long search, I remained ignorant as I traversed the arch of my life, aware of only the things people say about love, often discovering the fact that they lived in dreams they never worked to realize. They swam in poetry, songs and made it look like worship.  It became an addiction that soon turned to withdrawals; some of them did take the right measures, but they never knew the dosage, I thought.  I thought of many things, seen many happenings, adopted, surely, the right ways of thinking, but the biggest mistake that I have ever made was that I thought I knew better. You – caught me – by surprise. . .

Dear friend, whom's name I will not write, believing that it is sacred to me. . .I find solace in the thought of you. Your image is subtle, much like hearing summer's rain tapping outside the window when the morrow breaks. I respect your humbleness, your loyalty to yourself and the greater good. I may criticize your refusal to bare your pain, but I understand where it comes from, therefore, I admire it and therefore I seek the patience to stand it, praying that you find the relief that I was never able to provide.

Dear friend. . .I'm running out of signs. The ink will outlast my words, for they are crippled and will soon fade back into my veins; my being will soon find itself staring into my own thoughts and my lips will no longer mouth the words. Instead I will be staring, wondering for as many precious moments it takes. No poetries or ballads; we've heard enough of them.

Instead, my dear friend, I give you my sincerest silence. . .