Closing Letter
Dear Muse
I'm going to tell you this in all honesty alright? I maybe a writer. I may have words and I may know how to put them together. But you? You're the muse. You're the glue that binds them. You're what holds them together. You're the reason why they make sense. You're the reason why they even exist. No you. No words. No me. Before you came along, even my words would feel so small and meaningless. You have no idea. That was the day when I first saw you and something in me stirred and I wrote for you, about you. And then there is this day today, when I look at you and something in me still stirs and I still write for you, about you. I mostly could've shrugged it off as just an attraction. An obsession. But I couldn't. Because something about you connected. And it kept growing. Still grows. And after all this time, my words still find their reason, their home in you. If you ever feel underestimated, then just remember that you bring somebody's words to life. Though I know the idea of it might not always be pleasant. It can get tiring, being a muse. Constantly being described and adorned in words you didn't ask for. Might also feel like being overused. But I would never want to make you feel that way. Because you're worth so much more than all my words combined. I love you, love. And so does the writer in me. And we never plan on letting you go. We're here to stay. And when it comes to you, we're very determined to persuade you to stay too.
With love,
Your writer.
I'm going to tell you this in all honesty alright? I maybe a writer. I may have words and I may know how to put them together. But you? You're the muse. You're the glue that binds them. You're what holds them together. You're the reason why they make sense. You're the reason why they even exist. No you. No words. No me. Before you came along, even my words would feel so small and meaningless. You have no idea. That was the day when I first saw you and something in me stirred and I wrote for you, about you. And then there is this day today, when I look at you and something in me still stirs and I still write for you, about you. I mostly could've shrugged it off as just an attraction. An obsession. But I couldn't. Because something about you connected. And it kept growing. Still grows. And after all this time, my words still find their reason, their home in you. If you ever feel underestimated, then just remember that you bring somebody's words to life. Though I know the idea of it might not always be pleasant. It can get tiring, being a muse. Constantly being described and adorned in words you didn't ask for. Might also feel like being overused. But I would never want to make you feel that way. Because you're worth so much more than all my words combined. I love you, love. And so does the writer in me. And we never plan on letting you go. We're here to stay. And when it comes to you, we're very determined to persuade you to stay too.
With love,
Your writer.
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