Dearest,
potential is so painful, and what-ifs can't help but cut to the core.
You have left enough behind amid your dust and sleepy memories for me to build a muse on; far more useful than idols, far warmer than ideals. It is all, I suppose, that I really needed, even if I do still ache for more.
Dearest, if you do not wish to be near enough to hear how eternal your eyes or how perfect your mouth, I will say it, shout it, whisper it to tempted romantics, in the hopes that someone will believe me that you were more than just a passing dream.
Truly,
Me.
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