"I am not always read the same way that I wrote. Sometimes, there is a discrepancy between what I wanted to say and what others read or understood from my words", I said quietly as we laid on the beach next to each other.
"How do you make sure others read and understand what you meant?" he asked curiously as the sun caressed his skin with awe, making his face ageless.
"I try to compensate for this discrepancy with more accurate words, elaborations, authentic presentation of feelings, and punctuation marks. I try to minimize the unseen gap between me and my words".
"Does it help?" he smiled softly and caressed my cheek with the warmth of the sun, or perhaps it was his own, I wasn't sure.
"No. In this endless attempt to accurate myself, I realize that I exist only within this endeavor to write myself, to be read. And I am more than this plain existence".
"So, what can you do?"
"Nothing. I can only hope that my words will touch you the same way they touched me when I wrote them. Even if they touch different parts of you, that's the beauty of words, their ability to touch me in one spot, and touch you in another".
"Do you want your words to touch me, Grace?" his smile widened with his love.
"No. I want them to burn you", I said drily, but smiled with my eyes. And I could see he was reading what I meant. Every single word.
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