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He spoke like he was writing letters - with a crinkled paper mouth and envelope lips. His words were written in the air as if there was an inkwell at the bottom of his larynx filled with ink made of love and sadness. He would begin with, "To my Darling," and finish with a poem about the time he didn't want to come home.
Sometimes, I would be afraid to speak to him, as if my tongue would leave splotches of selfishness and pride stained all over his letters. "I don't want you to see what my ink is made of," I would say. "Ink splatters are not as ugly as you think," he would write back.
One days, his letters stopped coming. I began to write, saying, "Come back! Come back! Come back!" and asking, "Why? Why? Why?" over and over again, but no reply came. My inkwell bubbled over with sadness, and my words sputtered out exactly as I feared they would - blotchy and messy with runny, jumbled up sentences and lines that smudged over each other.
I cried and cried until the sad ink emptied out, and I thought that there was only selfishness and pride left. And then I realized... If my inkwell could be filled with sadness, it could be filled with love too. So I picked up a pen and started with this:

"To my Darling,"