If ever this lands on your feet, was handed over to your hands or falls on your face in whatever possible way, bear in mind that I'm so sure that I did not send you this.
It’s because I don't want you to react.
I don't even want to know that you read this.
And I don't want to change a thing about us.
But I will be lying if I ask you any of those.
Though, I want to ask you these things:
I want you to be as soft as water that, at some point of your life, once were.
I want you to sing songs you fancy and belt them out as if no one really cares.
I want you to hop or skip one step when you are walking.
I want you to bathe yourself in the rain and feel the raindrops touch your face.
I want you to play in the puddles if you'd want that.
I want you to be, for once or twice a year, carefree because you are free.
I want you to stay happy.
I want you to feel that I miss you.
I want you to know that I love you, and that is present tense.
And I don't really care if you say it back because that's a human flaw.
To expect people to say the things you tell them back to you.
I didn't want to write about other things other than the things that are so obvious that I'll write about because those other things will stay in my heart and I will die with them.
So whatever happens, if this finds its way to you.
Delete it, burn it, forget it, your call.
I just wrote about you and the things that wanted you to know.
At this point, you say you don't want me to forget things that I should be doing but it's too obvious that you meant that I should not forget about you.
And I won't forget about you because everything about you, I have noted down as important or urgent.
It feels like years, when it has really been a few months. We used to talk like nothing in this world can separate you from me, like how you cannot separate the sugar from salt once they have been put together.
But we were never together, and that's the thing I miss.