Photo by Petr Ovralov on Unsplash Written December 9, 2016 I am not a gifting person. Years ago, someone suggested I write them something about love as a gift instead. I made many starts, completed nothing. Perhaps happiness doesn't inspire me the way sorrow does. Then last year came the first and only love letter I've ever written. Does it mean more if you write letters? May I? Dearest. When I met you, the only taste I remembered any more was the taste of ashes in my mouth. When I met you, the sun had cracked open, and loss was everywhere. When I met you, you were a shadow, hidden among shadows, a nervous joke whispered on the winds of my thoughts. When I met you, I was looking for a friend. Then I met you, and the sun rose again, whole and healthier than before. I met you, and the joke turned to undying laughter on my lips. I met you, and I knew longing again, my soul unable to bear its weight. I did not know you existed, and in the wee hours o
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