If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
Congratulations, my love. You have become immortal. Yes, it is true, I can no longer hear your voice, nor touch your skin, stroke your hair, or inhale the scent of your clothes. The peal of your laughter will no longer reach my ears, and I will never again feel your hand wrap tightly around mine. But you are not gone–not really.
People may wonder, how can this be? But the truth is, a writer’s love can never die.
You are my grammar and my syntax; the gentle flow of my sentence. You are my spelling, my diction, and my voice. You have buried yourself in every single character, every hill, every valley, every falling leaf and teardrop. You are the rising sun and the glorious moon; a sky full of stars and a sky full of clouds. You are the essence of every rainbow, and you are the eye of every storm.
You are my muse.
You are the life that makes my words leap from the page. You are the soul that allows my readers to feel my joy, my pain, my guilt, and my pride. You are the inky words in my notebook, and you are the elusive thoughts that never escaped my pen.
You may never know how engrained you have become in my world, even though I would go so far as to say you are my world.
Without you, such a world would not exist, yet, because such a world exists, I will never be without you.