Pieces of You

To a kindred soul I never shall know well enough:

You are exquisite.

You are profound in the many reaches of your mind—at once mysterious and relatable. But these words are not what I mean to say at all, and I fear I shall never convey so eloquently my infatuation with your being.

My love for you is… exceptional in its unique form. I have never cared so greatly for someone I hardly knew. I wonder that it is love... but then of course it is that. Again, unique. But unmatched… not fervorous, not unconditional or by any means traditional love… not the love one imagines upon hearing the word. Not the common entity. This is more unusual. This is to be enamored by something you can’t see. This is faith, if you will. The love I feel is as religion. It is the conviction of belief. It is the feeling that there is something greater and more immense than meets the eye. That is what you are to me. You are a discovery.

You are.

You are the day that ends in serenity and awesome brilliance; a benign immensity of unstained light that gives way to the eventual dusk… with the promise of return. Thus, you have captivated me. And I should like to sit and watch the tides of your splendor.

(Do not relent to the crushing burden that you have shouldered. You are a stronger Atlas than you realize. And you are admired.)

But these words are not what I mean to say at all, and I fear I shall never convey so eloquently my infatuation with your being.