Dear Stranger,

You tell me to not get attached. You tell me to keep my feelings in check. Perhaps it will be easier that way. Perhaps it will make sense to me later on. Perhaps it is the smart thing to do, considering you keep telling me we have no future together.

And yet, I keep being pulled towards you the harder I try to keep myself at bay. Well, anyone has yet to accuse me of being smart about these things.

If I know myself, I know that I mostly think in feelings. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of emotions overlapping each other. No matter how much I try to unravel them, these tangled web of strings somehow always lead me to you.

You tell me to not fall in love. That those with no future ahead of their relationship cannot afford that luxury. And then you gift me with such a heartwarming soul soothing paiting.

I felt like breaking down into tears right then and there. It was the first thoughtful gift I ever received. It felt like such a representation of us. In more ways than I could describe at that time.

Such synchronisity I felt with the artwork that I felt as if I was in it. And yeah, so were you.

I the ever curious cat. Painted with the colors of my dreams on my fur, and you.. you my love, the butterfly.

I'm going to write a story about this. But that is for later. Right now I'm just overwhelmed with gratitude and appreciation for you. You cannot know what it means to me.

Such a thoughtful gift, it makes me feel like I matter. As if, even if I die tomorrow, there will be someone who will be there to remember me as I was. For my deepest darkest self I reveal only to you.

You tell me to not love you. And then you go ahead and make me lovesick too. My head is so overfill with contradictory commands right now that I might be glitching in and out of existence. I am usually a pretty level headed guy when it comes to things like this.

As a writer, you have to be.. you know? Yet I don't know how.. to deal with these emotions. I envy those that can shed tears. Let there body help heal your minds by letting the excess spill over.

It's a shame that most men are never taught how to cry.

So I smile instead.

Yours