His words seem to be written only for me. They touch a part of what I'm feeling without any explanations. He writes in abstract - like a hidden secret. Only I am able to interpret what he is saying. That's the hidden message. The gift. His gift. His gift to me. I fool myself into believing his words are only for me. Does it really matter anyway if its all an illusion to me? Does it really matter if he shares his gift with others? What matters is at the loneliest times his words bring a light to my life that I can't find on my own. My man with a gift of words which he writes only for me. My illusion. Cold, harsh realities of this world can cut you to pieces. His words save me from my own despair.