i don't know why i'm doing these letters that is purely a trash—you can't read these so why bother and rush? i've got myself busy, yet all i am is thirsty to the days our talk is long but not needy. yes, i'm a bit antsy, but who won't when you are all i think and fought?
the days that i can remember—the nights that you are all I can be. you are what i think, why can't you see?
i'm dumb and broke, i've got these bad thoughts. i'm imperfect and flawed, so are you—why can't it be me and you?
you're a sun, the day, the star, and all that shines. maybe, that's why we can't be.
you are the light. yet, i'm the nightmare.
why am i writing?