My dearest love,

In my dreams, I see the world in darkness. I see things I am not meant to know of, I see people I should not see anymore. And when I wake up, these prophetic dreams lie upon me, making a house a home in my heart until they come true and scatter into the world. I am a resting place for them; my dreams are their journey to get to me. But these prophecies are no kind guests, and I am no kind host.

I worry and worry about what they mean while they twist and turn into something different the more I remember it. I think I've finally cracked it, but I haven’t, and the world seems not to be apparent. These dreams haunt me long after they've come true, and in the middle of the night, they prepare to be cruel. They come back to me more haunting and uncertain than I remember them to be. They consume me until there's nothing left of my core.

These dreams sometimes test me, my patience and my wants. They show me people gone cold and still, and I know they aren't alive and something evil is at work, but still I give in to my whims, and I hug them again, as if the last seven years never happened and I am still a child unbothered by death. And when I wake up, I wake up knowing that the evil in my dreams is now the evil in my body, wrapping around my limbs and my organs, growing like bacteria.

In these dreams, sometimes I see you again and again, and you love me, and you hold me, and you kiss me. I wonder what bad omen this is a sign of, or if I think of you so much my mind has built you a dwelling in my dreams, your very own palace, with all my riches laid at your feet? Well, you wouldn't know the answer to this, nor will you ever know of this question. But I need to know, do you really mean it when you say those sweet words to me at night? Are you playing along, or are you as sick as I am – an unwilling victim of the tender haunting called love?

You once said I get poetic when I am sad, and I suppose I am sad whenever I try to write about you. You know, last night I couldn't sleep because I could still smell your perfume all over myself. No matter what I did to distract myself, you disarmed me while not even being awake. I'm pathetic, I know, but I can’t claw my way out of this longing — it’s become the walls, the air, the floor beneath me. Half of this letter is filled with paranoia, and the other half is full of yearning. I'm sorry, but whenever I sit to write, all I can yield is a messed-up jumble of thoughts, and nothing I write seems coherent enough to be said out loud. And all I think about is you and these dreams, so accept this half-assed, almost love letter, because trust me, if I could create exquisite places for you with my words, I would, but I can’t, and this is all I have got, so I pray you will take it.