I read a quote by Zora Neale Hurston that says, "If you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it" -- so this is me, not enjoying it.

First, let me start off by saying that I'm in love with you. I won't elaborate on how I love the way your hair bounces or the way you smell at all times. I won't tell you that I'm really quite afraid of you and what you do to me. But you should know, however, that that is not enough.

Love is an interesting concept that I have a hard time explaining with science, so instead, I'll discuss it in terms of art. Art's purpose is distinctive to each person and my favorite theory is that it is to console those broken by life. In retrospect, everyone's capacity of love is different and affects us similarly by evoking feelings of both pain and pleasure. I pick up the paintbrush even when it hurts because it hurts and because there is solace in the pain of being an artist. Or in other words, I'll love you even when it hurts because I can't help myself. And I don't want to help myself.

Second, I'm sorry you're such an a**hole. I'm sorry I'm such an a**hole. People are difficult to understand and we cannot help our humanity. We are selfish people who want everything and give little yet feel entitled to more. I wish it weren't true.

Pain in romance is romanticized similar to pain in art. I want to say that the words are not synonymous at the very least, but then I'd be lying. The last night we talked on the phone, you told me that realistically, things would stay the same for the remainder of our time even though conditions are tough and that you love me and really do miss me. This switch goes off in my head every time you speak as if I've been training my entire life to please you, did you know that?

Third, I told you that I understand, and I do, but love f****** sucks and everyone knows it.

Fourth, when the weather is just right and we're alone on the beach, the waves will cascade onto the shore in a beautiful shimmer. We'll watch it crash and dissipate only to be lured back into the current and come crashing again. Don't forget about that poem I wrote you about the ocean where you're personified as the water's light and darkness. Read it again and again if you still don't understand.

Lastly, in the moments you find to think of me, realize that I've always made time for you. Remember every painting and know they were made in your name, branding your face into my sub-consciousness by your absence and to let the pain of being an artist in love consume me. You can't help me and I can't help myself so I just want you to know that even though my capacity to appreciate art envelopes you and your reign of distant love, I'm an anchor-less boat. But the water is muddy.