This isn’t really a love letter, but then again, a part of me feels like everything is a love letter in some funny ways we can’t (or don’t wanna) explain. So I guess this isn’t really a love letter, but it really is a love letter too.
And it seems awkward for me to say this to no one in particular and to anyone at the same time, but you are a miracle. You’re here. Maybe not always present, but you’re here, which means that you’re not absent, which means that you’re leaving a trace of yourself in everything you touch, and if you’re here (which you are), you’re touching everything that’s here. Which is a miracle. So therefore, you are a miracle.
Second (and harder to say).
But you are. Miracles aren’t godly or impossible. They’re human and small and happiness and lovely and love and magical and possible and everyday. It’s a miracle to look at this place and still believe that we can hold hands without our skins burning each other because it seems like we’re all lighting ourselves on fire these days, maybe trying to give birth to ourselves again so instead of wearing tough skins with unwanted scars, we’d have new skins. Soft and wanted. But I think that the fact that our bodies scar and our hearts break is a miracle because it means that the world is leaving traces of itself on us, which means that we’re here. Which means that, if we’re here, we can leave traces of ourselves too. Which means we are miracles.
Third (and simply).
That is all. You can’t look at this place with your head down. You can’t see yourself with your eyes on the ground (and the ground will always be there). So keep your chin up and just stay here.
There are a lot of people having a rough day and lonely moments and shitty months and broken years and not enough time, so this is for you. This is for the miracle.