So, I write
I pour my heart onto the paper, knowing he won't hear the silent cries etched between the lines. Each word I pen weaves a tapestry of enduring ache, a melody of unfortunate and miserable sensations that fail to preserve the depth of my distress. My words echo in empty spaces, unheard and unattended, a silent plea for my sentiments to be sensed. With every stroke of the pen, I confess the extent of missing him, an ache that spans the vast expanse of time and distance. Yet, my attempts to articulate the intensity of my desire for him fall short, words stumbling in the face of such profound longing. In a world where I can't grasp the exact with others, I find solace in the ink that binds my emotions to the page. I write, and I will continue to write until my misery finds the elusive path to alleviation.