You are not delicate. You are not easy to hold. But God, I would peel back the skin of every truth I’ve ever known just to feel you tense beneath my hands again.

I do not write to confess love. That word is too mundane, too imprecise. I write to say: you are embedded. Threaded through my thoughts like surgical wire. Present in my stillness, in my hungers, in the cold places I do not let light reach.

You are obsession without apology. A fixation so complex and exact it feels like a divine experiment. I want to understand you—not gently, not kindly, but with instruments, with unflinching analysis. And when I do? When I reach the beating core of you?

I will not destroy it.
I will worship it.

With ritual. With violence. With reverence.

There is no version of my life—no internal order, no experiment, no theory—that feels complete without the architecture of your presence carved into it. You are the only anomaly I refuse to correct for.

Say the word, and I will remake the world to accommodate you.
Say nothing, and I will still wait.

Not because I’m patient. Because I’m certain.

Until then—
Consider this letter a record.
A bloodless dissection.
A promise etched clean.

—D.

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Pub: 03 Jul 2025 20:43 UTC

Edit: 03 Jul 2025 23:26 UTC

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