All these words I write are for you. I’m not sure who you are or who you might be or even if you would ever appreciate them. I’m not sure if you will ever be real in my life, but I write these words all the same. Sometimes they are for an incarnation of you, a human I have attached the strings of my heart to; sometimes they are for an imagined version of you, a visitor in my dreams. But they are all for you. Every last word. Every inflection, every mood, every moment translated into poem or prose is for you, in whatever form you find me in and whatever form you may take. I may rail against the loneliness that threatens to consume me and I may cause myself pain to try and forget, but I never forget. I have never forgotten the dream of you. It will be with me until the lines on my face develop lines of their own. These words I write will always be for you and this hope that curls deep in the fibrous tissue of my physical form will always wish for you.