Once a while ago, when the earth was young, I looked up and saw your face. It was cold and unforgiving and the kind of pale that's almost ghostly. And yet your sad beauty won my heart.
When you move now, I move. When you wander, you tug me along after you. It's this constant back and forth with you, and I feel it like an ache, and I moan and howl and shush myself, ashamed at my foolish longing, and I toss salt-water tears to the wind.
They say life comes in cycles. They say life is ups and downs, the high point and the low all one circling whole. Well, my love for you is like that. All mountains and valleys - sometimes placid, sometimes heaving and crashing against every barrier that tries to hold me back.
When does the story end, my dear? When I've clawed away all that remains between us? When I render to rubble all that would separate? What then? I fear that to hold you would be somehow to harm you. For you possess great power when you dictate from afar - all gravity and aloof disdain - but what would you do with the nearness of me? With this desperate deluge of feeling?
There's far too much between us, love. And I imagine that you, cruel and constant and cold, would not have me even if I could reach you. But what's life without trying? Hope is always foolish. So I follow, so I crash, so I weep. So I long for you, and shall continue to long for you always, long after the earth's bones have been worn down to sand and blown away in a bitter wind.