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Literature Text
Dear My Love Secret:
You always held my hand as we stared at the sky with its cotton swirls and pale colors. Now, as I lie on the dead and sparse grass of a lawn once loved, I force myself to stare at the heavens we no longer share. What used to be a canvas of beauty and light is now stormy and dull; it's bittersweet knowing that this isn't the sky you're looking at.
You're somewhere up there. Perhaps you're nearby, gazing at the bleak, brown Earth with dismay. I pray not; your color-oriented memory would force you to remember the sorrowful paints of your former home before its long awaited death.
I'm afraid I cannot write much longer. I'm at the climax of my youth, yet I am exceptionally frail; my hand shakes as I curl these letters, and I'm fearful that my fallen tears have blurred my words. I've devoured anything relatively edible in sight but I am still quite malnourished and even the simple act of writing a letter pains me so.
My time is near, along with every other life on this planet. The Worldwide Space Association, or what is left of it, has granted me the privilege of having this letter delivered to you, wherever you may be, for which I am highly thankful. I merely wished to say goodbye to the man who has kept me sane through my time with the blade.
Very few people outside of WSA know of your existence, and this is why you are my secret. You are my secret and my love and my friend, and I'm glad you are not on this planet to suffer along with me.
I love you, and I always have, despite my denial in the past years.
Earnestly,
Your Secret
You always held my hand as we stared at the sky with its cotton swirls and pale colors. Now, as I lie on the dead and sparse grass of a lawn once loved, I force myself to stare at the heavens we no longer share. What used to be a canvas of beauty and light is now stormy and dull; it's bittersweet knowing that this isn't the sky you're looking at.
You're somewhere up there. Perhaps you're nearby, gazing at the bleak, brown Earth with dismay. I pray not; your color-oriented memory would force you to remember the sorrowful paints of your former home before its long awaited death.
I'm afraid I cannot write much longer. I'm at the climax of my youth, yet I am exceptionally frail; my hand shakes as I curl these letters, and I'm fearful that my fallen tears have blurred my words. I've devoured anything relatively edible in sight but I am still quite malnourished and even the simple act of writing a letter pains me so.
My time is near, along with every other life on this planet. The Worldwide Space Association, or what is left of it, has granted me the privilege of having this letter delivered to you, wherever you may be, for which I am highly thankful. I merely wished to say goodbye to the man who has kept me sane through my time with the blade.
Very few people outside of WSA know of your existence, and this is why you are my secret. You are my secret and my love and my friend, and I'm glad you are not on this planet to suffer along with me.
I love you, and I always have, despite my denial in the past years.
Earnestly,
Your Secret
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