I’ll write you a love letter because that is how I feel right now in this very instant.

It was a circumstance kind of love. The flare and swell of light when in close quarters, an adaptional adoration of the whole world getting squeezed into the immediate enviornment. A combination of the new year's wind and last year's mistletoe intoxicating the party. The feeling was real, yet as sincere as a still life. After the fruit has rotted the personal representation remains as the only proof. Can we believe the painter? Of course, but should we? So she took that proof and sealed it in a letter of unopened doors and let him gently close them. She was hurt. Tears fell, but more out of obligation than sorrow. A farewell to the possibility of a great partnership and the potential of an enjoyable pairing as a opposed to a great love.