Dear Eloise,

When it rains, it pours.

The sky rips with the sound of tossing his dreams deep asunder, and shards of cerulean jagged edged glass shower him with little to no mercy. Black, midnight streams of salted coffee without stars. A sprinkling of cuts decorate his soul, varying in depth, in meaning. He shivers, but he doesn't beg; he doesn't stutter when he speaks. The chrysalis deep inside of him has rotted to the point of no repair; he breathes the forlorn hope of thousands of skeletons of purple butterflies. His fingertips sprout wilted flowers. Violets. And he cries mercy, he cries forgiveness as they suffocate him, pulsating veins dragging him down to the depths of fury filled hell. 

There is no bigger picture. 

Life is a side effect of the inevitable. And when people tell me that I, I don't have the audacity to matter in this world, this world filled with billions of people, plants, animals, hatred and love... It kills me a little. Why is this world so fond of killing, so fond of murky depths of unknown death?

Junhong looks over Yongguk's shoulder, admiring the spilled ink that adorns his parchment notepad. A birthday present. Yongguk isn't a professional writer, but Junhong thinks he ought to be. He reflects quietly... That it's a shame how the palatinate gems get cast aside, sunken in the ocean. Yongguk... Writing... The quiet concentration in transferring crowded thoughts from his terribly beautiful mind onto the paper in front of him gives him the utmost respect from his partner. Yongguk often wrote to Eloise, but as far as Junhong was aware, she was a pleasant figment of his imagination. 

Eloise is the beginning, she is the end, and she the heliotrope ink from his pen. 

He'd stumble upon upon Yongguk at 5am in the morning, writing to Eloise, or simply staring out of the window as the hazy sunlight as it took it's time, bathing him and changing him into someone new. Yongguk doesn't like himself, but his process in changing himself is regressive, useless. 

Junhong... Doesn't try to fix the broken, he knows it's a path of self discovery. All the healing that he sends with love, it's a beautiful accident. Aren't those the treasure in daily routines? Beautiful accidents? The dash of brightly coloured powder, lagato in temparament, atop of dull brown clay. The scars are just gingerly kissed with the hope that one day they'll all be shriveled and dried beyond recognition, diary entries of the past. For a moment, sometimes hours at a time, Yongguk would forget Eloise. He'd instead see the man in front of him, sleeves rolled up and eyes crinkled at the corners, lazy in the happy home they shared... And every other train of thought just... Vanished. 

The two of them curl up together triumphant, two lovers, like the ying and yang. They fit together harmoniously; they often breathe in unison. They softly whisper promises to one another, as gentle as the wandering breeze in bohemian summer, promises that are undoubtedly going to be carried by their heavy paper hearts to the grave. 

Midnight talks.