Stranger,

 I write to you. I write to you until my hands bleed at the grip of my pen, until I run out of words and forget that there's still life outside the window in the only world we have. At night as I imagine you dance and leap over my synapses, I write to you, and I don't stop until the moon runs out of the meager light it has. And as my thoughts would prod and pry at my phantasmagoria of you, my mind would crumble at the possibility that you would never get to know that I write to you, more so that I exist. But I write to you, nevertheless.  I write to you with the finest letters I could ever string together, with the most beautiful pizzicato my hands could ever come up with. I write to you even if it pains me knowing that you're a puzzle I could never complete, a riddle I could never figure out, and a mystery I would never get to solve this side of eternity. And every time I get the chance, i write to you because that's the only thing I can do for now. And I will wait for the perfect time those words would drift through the wind and find you, and I will dance you through the beautiful stage of could-be's I wrote for the both of us. So listen carefully and intently stranger, to the wee voices the wind carries, for who knows you'd hear me... And know this, stranger: I still write for you. Tirelessly. I write to you.