My Ink-Stained Heart

Dear Words,

I don't know where to start. 

I've known you since I was little.

I was struggling with you, trying to figure you out.

I eventually figured out how you sound and I couldn't stop showing everyone.

Then I learned what you look like and I've never been the same. 

I stare at you every day.

I love the way you weave into something that can make me laugh and cry.

Sometimes, the finished product isn't the best, but I blame the weaver, not you.

I've written so many poems with you and about you trying to capture these feelings.

It is amazing how I can press a few buttons and *poof* there you are. 

You make my heart swell and clench.

I want to be with you more. 

It hurts, like a pressure on my chest, this urge to weave with you.

I get jealous because other people have time to spend with you and I don't.

I want to, I want to make something beautiful like them with you.

So many stories, characters, worlds in my head, and all I give you the time for is a letter.

You don't deserve that. You deserve people like Madeline L'Engle or Isaac Asimov.

People who know how to treat you the way you were to be treated.

With love and care.

With wisdom and knowledge. 

They're expert weavers and I'm just... me

You're so beautiful and I don't know what to do about it.

I think I'm in love with you.

No. I know I'm in love with you.

I suppose you've always known given that I spend so much time with you.

That time I stared at you for hours, admiring the weaver's work until I came to the end.

I do that a lot.

I'm giving you my ink-stained heart.

Please don't let me forget you and please forgive me for any awful weavings I may make.

I could tell you so much more right now, but once again, my life calls me away from you.

Thank you for always being there for me.

I love you,

The girl with an ink-stained heart