beautiful things instantaneously

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There is someone I want to write a letter to, not only just one letter, but letters, like I used to write to him. Not just emails, but actually letters, on paper. I wrote to him, all the long letters, at kitchen tables with a cat on my lap, on my bed with candle lights, under dim lights in a wee cabin in Xinjiang. I wrote to him, and my letters travelled across mountains and oceans to get to him. I miss typing in his name and writing down about my day. “Tell each other how our days are… maybe nothing will be different, but everything will be different.”

The beauty of words; the beauty of the distant closeness. I miss this person, and I wish he could read about my life. The real loneliness is you cannot be heard by the one you want to be heard the most, isn’t it?

I miss writing to him. I wish I could write to him.

The days go on, and I become more faithless.