I have a strong belief that there are a thousand and one ways I could write about you; out here in this fictitious land of mine the sun rests not in the sky but on the waves of the ocean, melted to become tiny rivulets of honey beams, yet not ever extinguished. The trees laugh and the mass of green dances not with the wind, but the running man whose aura leaves all in a void of tranquil. You could be the little insect insulated within the blades of the grass, yet be mightier than the elephants, more magnificent than the silver moon and cloud-wrapped peaks, leaf-clothed trees and fog-cloaked meadows...there are a thousand and one ways I could write about you, but my words are only few, and there are times when they don't seem to be pleasing. But there is one part of the vineyard I can take—out there, you and I are not alike. I exist as one mass of breath and blood captive in bundles of brown, fragile flesh. but you, your soul rests everywhere, not just in the greenery or the sea, not the sky or earth or on the shells of the turtles I once saw at the shores of the beach, but in every little thing that crescendoes into this universe of ours– even in the eyes of a wrinkled being, old yet bursting with life. And on that broken mailbox standing next to a cabin, the mailbox that kept safe both your words and mine as we pranced about this earth, distant yet closer than ever.
There are a thousand and one ways I could write about you but for the time, for this little moment, I will leave it all to the simple gestures brimming with the love I have for you. For this little moment, I will lay my words to rest.