There is a pattern that is laid throughout the history of all known romance; that only after it has ended is such romance put to words. For what reason? It is difficult to say. Some would say it is romantic idealism, while others who are more practical would contend that it is imprudent to write a story to which yet has no ending. For whatever the reason, that is how love stories go – unwritten until finished; be it by heartbreak, death or both. Yet let me be frank my dear, though the curtains draws near for this romance of ours I want you to be assured – I’m not going to write about you. I will not write of the manner in which we met, nor of manner with which we fell in love. Nor will I write of the countless nights that in thought of you I smiled for no reason and shook my head. I will not write of our first stolen kiss, that afternoon way up high in the overlooking mountains. I will not write about the moment fate first allowed me to first know your embrace. My pen shall never meet paper to reminisce me squeezing your hand, nor will any ink be spilled to recount how we first danced to the music of a distant radio. No my dear, no words will be used and no paper shall be wasted. No I will not write about you. Why? Because to write about thee and retell the glorious moments we’ve shared is to concede defeat and admit goodbye. I shall not say goodbye. A lot of things keep us apart: time, morality and common sense; but no I shall not bid you farewell. Fate shall not get the better of us. If life ends for me without having it end with you in my arms, then I swear I shall have it end so in the next. And if by some rotten trick of fate, your touch eludes me still, I shall have you in the one after that. I shall pursue you throughout time until destiny itself can no longer find an excuse to keep us apart; and it shall in its frustration admit to itself the inevitability of our love’s consummation. And when that moment comes – and believe me it shall; when I have triumphantly taken you for my own, I shall write a story that does justice to the wonder of our romance. If at another life, I shall not be born with poetics at my fingers; then rest assured that I shall profess my love through other means. If I be born a painter, then I shall paint the walls of story. If I be a musician, I shall sing serenades of passion. And if I am not born with any other talent aside from loving you, then I shall simply hold you and have my embrace convey my message; weary not you shall understand. All these things I swear to you my dear… But as we stand as of the moment, where all is uncertain except our love, then forgive me; I will not write about you….