I picked this up from a random blog I've chanced upon.
"I have written about you before. I will write about you again. For that is the only time I can ever have spent with you."
This is the very problem that persists.
.
I write to you over and over again, like time never mattered and as if you were reading all of this.
You never let me know if it's getting better.
And I keep writing.
It's as if I'm writing to the old grand auntie who is about to make her exit out of this world.
The frequency high, afraid that I will miss the opportunity for any moment together on ink.
But I write with a burning desire to be completed.
Reciprocality is my nemesis.
My saviour no one but myself, no one but a clear-minded train of thought.
Sometimes I objectify you, but it is the most tangible aspect of you that can ever happen to me.
I take time to paint a picture of you.
Many a times, I give up half-way, deterred by the fact there are too many missing gaps I cannot fill of you.
Longing is unrequited, not love. So says my muse.
and so we quote: "I have written about you before. I will write about you again. For that is the only time I can ever have spent with you."
