Let me be the ink that traces your name—not only on paper,
but softly along the walls of a heart
that has waited too long to speak yours aloud.

I don’t know how it’s possible that someone like you—
so radiant, so quietly soulful—
has never been given a letter folded with trembling hands,
sealed with something more sincere than just a kiss.

So I’ll write what I feel,
even if the words fall short.
They always do
when what I feel isn’t measured in vocabulary,
but in pulses, in pauses,
in the way my breath catches whenever I think of you.

If I could, I’d pour moonlight into an envelope,
line the page with stardust,
and let the universe spell your name in constellations.
But for now, it’s just me—
a simple man with an overflowing heart
and a need to show you what love looks like when it’s honest.

When it’s not borrowed or begged for.
When it’s soft in the morning
and fierce at midnight.

I’d write to you every morning if you let me—
a sentence for every smile you’ve hidden,
a verse for every touch you’ve never received,
a page for every moment someone should have held you
but didn’t.

You deserve a love
that never makes you question your worth.
A love that arrives without games,
stays without condition,
and grows without fear.

So here it is—my heart in ink.
No gimmicks. No riddles. Just truth.
Bare and warm and waiting for you to read.

And if this letter is the first,
may it never be the last.
For every day with you
is another reason to write again.

Yours—
even before you asked.