I want to write you a letter and ask you what is the color of sky above you, is it crimson blue or can you see streaks of dark clouds ready to move in with cavalry of thundering ones. The letter would ask you if the birds are happy there and chirp like they should and request you to find time to walk out to wave at the Moon, stuck in the solitary confinement of gaseous void. Amid the textual inquery of the sky and land, I would let you know what a dreary evenings I endure with all the other such lengthily written but unsent letters lying next to me.
How do I tell them, what a tragic world it is where words and letters like emotions are bound to obey the draconian law of truth. But like each written heartfelt conversation, this one would too end with still here, still yours.