I am writing this letter to you
Not because I want to befriend you
But because I’ve already made you
A part of my family.
They used to tell me that
I don’t have the ability to write you,
The ability to express you
And the ability to make them understand you.
Maybe it’s because my situations
Which you’ve been a part of
Have always been complex.
Complicated.

I used to feel like you and I
Had lost our mutual connection.
The love we shared,
The advice we exchanged and the
Comfort we gave one another;
Felt, lost all because of what they said about you, to me.

For a moment I had thought I
Was a fake client to you whom
Would never last. A pretender
That I’ve always written about.
My understanding of the inner
Broil was fear; but it seems that
Jealousy is what prevailed from
The exterior walls of the mind.

I almost used the same paint brush I used on my pains, to
Paint you but thought of how unique you have always made
Me look. Whether it is faith
Which I lack, self-honesty
That I need or value for my
Work that I must work on,
You’ll never be the cost of
Getting one of those.

Dear Poetry, thank you for being
More than just a diary to me.