Dearest,

O' what shall this woman write? The blank piece of paper before awaits my words, but my thoughts swirl and my feelings twirl, mingling together so much so that I find it difficult to separate them into something understandable. It seems that my heart speaks one language and my mind speaks another, and the fingers that type these words do not fully understand either language. What I want to write seems simple, yet I find it difficult. I am a wordsmith, so how can this be? Is it that I want to do something that extraordinary? It seems simple enough. With my words, I want to paint a mental picture for you, one that communicates what my mind sees, and at the same time, adequately conveys the depth of emotion within me.

O, what shall this woman write? Try as I may, try as I might, I cannot find words expressive enough to convey these things. Should I write that my world was a dark night, and you have become the glittering stars? Should I explain how my spirit has had an unquenchable thirst until I found your love's sweet fountain, and my heart is now overflowing? What, oh what, shall this woman write? Should my words tell you that my soul was cold, and you ignited a fire, an orange and red and yellow blaze, that warms to the core of my being? Shall I admit you excite my most primal feminine desires? Or, shall I say that your precious presence in my world is appreciated more than mere words can convey? Yes, that is what I shall write! Yes, that is what I want you to know.

Darling, your precious presence in my world is appreciated more than mere words can convey.

Loving you,