I also love you. Thus, I write in sadness: the blind man who thinks he sees is the closest to death. You will not believe me when I say this, but the world is full of butterflies and guitars - yet all the butterflies have broken wings, and all the guitars make music in vain.
I remember when we had adventures together, and kept each other alive with a joke or word of encouragement among the Greeks. I held a hope for you then (you know the hope of which I speak). I have not given up that hope, even with the news I have found.
You have not found clarity, dear Guitar. You have hidden your pain behind the temporary happiness of romance, and as the pain is hidden, so is the danger. Has poetry never been dark? Has poison never been sweet for a time? Have you not already seen the sweet turn bitter in your own life? For a short time, the music of a guitar may heal the broken wings of a butterfly. But that music will fade, and the wings will be shone still broken in the end, as always. The pain will only be greater for the music that was played - the music is evil.
The clarity of repentance and the hope of forgiveness stand unmatched, and will always stand. The love of a butterfly is only a broken shadow of that great love. Please forgive me if you find this pretentious, Guitar. These are only the words of a sad fool to a blind instrument.