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I've always been insecure with my writing — in my head, the way these words come together don't make any sense, and reading them is not something anyone would find any pleasure in doing. I never claim to be good with it—or to be good with words, for all that matters, but I just really, really like to write—and that's why I never even told you about things I made for you, or about you.
"You're one of the most articulate person I know in my entire life. You work your words in a magical way, you write wonderfully, you're a wizard."
You craft everything you try to convey carefully and tenderly, never in a mess like I always do in front of you. We are two sides of completely different worlds, which somehow mesh under an odd, yet very specific circumstance, and the way you think I have my way with words while I think you do with yours is a fact that's fascinating, although will never ever be as you are — cause nothing is.
"Or maybe you're just being honest and I still find your every word beautiful. I would feel bad because I couldn't placate you with my words like you do me."
Of everyone I'm dying to impress, you'd be making the top of the list, which was why the fact that you filled the void in my brain right as my fingertips making their way across the keyboard to craft a piece was not a fact I ever uttered specifically to you. It's not like I made them all my deepest, darkest secret—after all, its address plastered for everyone to easily find and judge—but shoving my creation that I know could never compare to how phrases flow as beautiful as yours was something I was dreading to do. For what your existence worth to mine, I don't think my words will do any justice to portray how I feel, and that they will never come close to what you deserve — cause what you do is so much more.
"They're magical, just like you. It's you. You're the best when you're just you."
When I finally got the courage to show one of them to you—of course under influence cause I wouldn't have an ounce of bravery otherwise—despite the mess of jumbled letters and how much of a chaos my train of thoughts were perfectly represented in every single word, I realized why you'd always be the answer of my questions.
It's the way you speak to me, the way your words reach me, the way nothing sounds wrong and comes out wrong when it's yours. Exactly what I needed, when I needed it.
"Thank you for letting me peek into your world, thank you for letting me show you what you think, thank you for taking me in a journey of your feelings."
You, are the definition of magic for me.
You are everything the word magical aims to be.