I wrote you a love letter using only my fingertips. The night watched in silence, its crescent smile hanging like an ancient blessing above my hands.
I did not write in ink. I wrote in moonlight gathering silver from the air and weaving it into a language only enchanted hearts remember.
My fingertips became spellwork moving with the patience of roots beneath a forest summoning words that refused to be spoken aloud.
Each touch awakened another constellation, another forgotten rune, another promise hidden inside the bones of the earth.
Had you been beside me, your skin would have becom the pages of an unwritten grimoire, every slow caress a sacred glyph, every lingering breath a seal upon the spell.
You would not have read *I love you.* You would have felt it moving through your veins like starlight dissolved in dark water, quiet, ancient, irresistible.
When the moon finally slipped behind her veil, the letter disappeared. Not because the magic ended, but because it had found its truest home, resting beneath your skin, where my fingertip still wander, long after my hands have fallen still.
