I remember the first day of seeing your face, almost like an alien memory. I was writing to you like I do now. But it was not you yet, not fully. Little did I know what that face would mean to me, what it would signal if only I had just allowed for my life to host your existence.
This is not a memory I wish to only keep, but a memory I wish to treasure. For what is treasure if not the things we carry until the end. I knew at that moment what kind of a privilege it is to see and to experience the unraveling of your being, the company your kind soul may offer. Each time I gaze upon your face, you break me in such a way that I become greater than the sum of my parts. All my excess drama and the sour vigilance of a soul untested by real, tactile love, you make it be more real than any world has any right to be. I become part of your story, our story, and in this, my ignorance fades to love.
It wasn't a rainy day or a bad day, the day we met. It was not special in any way but in that it was a day whose essence my soul will salvage forever. I still remember the blurry realization of getting to know you, the intricacies of your accent, the joy in your laughter, the anticipation for every little thing that made anyone's day better. I found in you a whole world, and I knew then that I could explore this world in a way it has never been explored or seen or loved before. It might be foolish of me to think this, but I know that you arrived into my heart with the promise of forever.
The memory of you is not you, I know that. I know that we have barely scratched the surface of what it means to be us, together. But I also know that my dreams are not counterfeit. I know my foolish mind is rushing in, finding words to describe the indescribable even now as I am attempting to make poetry out of my love. But even if I have a fool's dreams, I have a dreamer's heart. It is all I can really give and I give it fully to you.
Yours, P.