Love, I couldn’t stop my own hands from writing things about you, even when I know you’ll never see them. You’ve always been the only person for me—the waxing gibbous I’ll forever admire, the Gemini I once loved with everything in me. You were the woman of my all. I miss you. My journal is the only witness to how my pen slowly ran out of ink, each letter a quiet cry into the void, written just for you. I often wonder what it would feel like if you read even just one of them. Maybe then you’d understand the weight of everything left unsaid. But it’s alright. I’ll take care of these letters, keep them safe, tucked between pages of time and longing. Perhaps one day, all the unsaid words will finally find their way to you. (to my dead poetry— lamuerte)