Some letters are never meant to be sent.
In 1946, Richard Feynman wrote a love letter to his wife, two years after her death --He never sent it.
Last line: “I love my wife. My wife is dead.”
Suddenly unable to form coherent words so I will let my tears do all the talking. I love you, hermanita Corazón. I’ll always share half (even more) of my everything with you.
Literally beat me to it, so, I’ll be pouring my heart onto this thread in return. For my words are the Iiving testament that you are loved, hermana. I pretty much grew up seeing two things laying around our home.
Always loved me—freely, completely, and unconditionally. I love you, Hermana. Kisses from I who borrowed your shirt once again,
PS : I’ll forever will be your little Cozie, you will never get rid of me.
And if one day the world asked us to trade places, I know I would spend a lifetime trying to become even a fraction of the sister you have been to me. Still, if grace permits me the chance, I will love you in the manner you have
Two shadows trailing down hallways, two cinema tickets tucked away every Friday night and the two of us growing tg.
The older I get, the more I realize that my childhood has your fingerprints all over it. Wouldn’t have it the other way.
Two hairbrushes resting side by side, two scrunchies abandoned on the nearest surface, two sets of gel pens slowly running out of ink, two journals crowded with doodles in the margins, Two cups left in the sink after midnight conversations,
Literally beat me to it, so, I’ll be pouring my heart onto this thread in return. For my words are the Iiving testament that you are loved, hermana. I pretty much grew up seeing two things laying around our home.