I’ve resorted to writing unsent letters rather than asking you about the love i believe in unrequited. Your presence haunts my subconscious as i attempt to see nothing, getting teased with your flame. It is cruel. Maybe you did like me, but chose the other woman. Maybe you told me what you did out of desperation and ennui, to ease your boredom. Or maybe you feel the fire arise in the being housed in your body. Do you, Anthony, write about me? Do you too feel a monster awaken when greeted with my seemingly unreachable flame? Do you, Anthony, wish to feel a warmth that never burns? Because I know I do.