Dear Descriptive Imagery,

I need to let you in on a little secret. Come closer… no, closer. Perfect.

Okay. Ready? Here goes.

I love you.

I love you so much that sometimes you make me cry. You make me laugh. You make me gasp. You make me crease my pages and underline furiously and write in the margins of my favorite books, just so I can remember how you made me feel when I come back.

I love you for the flavors you make me want to taste. Bright, loud, tangy tangerines.The subtleties of coffee. Earthy gin.

I love you for the sights you help me see. The creek that gurgles and winds through a small forest, clear water tumbling over speckled pebbles and moss. The wrinkles in the leathery, tanned neck of a middle-aged woman, creases from years spent looking at the ground as she walks. The greyish, purply hues of a sky before a storm.

I love you for the things you make me feel. Physical things, like the constant thrumming of a headache against the front of my favorite character’s skull, or sea spray gusting from the ocean and hitting my face like spittle. But emotional things, too. Longing, despair, exultation, apathy. By describing a character despondent and wretched, lying helpless in her bed… you make me feel her depression. I am her depression. Empathy crawls up my throat and curls into a ball, as sadness unfurls itself in my belly, spreading its veins through my abdomen and reminding me of my own experiences.

How is it that you can create worlds with just your words?

How is it that they’re your words, your descriptions, yet my imaginings of them belong solely to me?

How is it that you can make me want to stay in and devour you, but also inspire me to go out and look around and better my own writing?

You are darkness and light, you are my imagination run wild, you are pictures and feelings and tastes and scents and so much more. You create moments and worlds and the universe.

And I am absolutely, unequivocally in love with you.

Love,

Miranda.

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