journal · prose

Belief

I love you, I love you. I think of you and each second I love you even more. The word is so desperately weak. I repeat myself in hope that if I say it enough, the volume, the force of the emotion, might slip through. I let it swallow me whole. Take over every inch of me. I love you! I wish I could rip the feeling out of me and give it to you, place it deep inside of you, so that you might feel and understand the sheer magnitude with which I do. Overflowing and endless.

I begged that you would never forget this, no matter what happened. I fear that you have. Or even worse: that you never believed in it at all.

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