these are my top-of-the-mind thought stream love letters to the 4 beloveds of my life

• wonwoo, you, you taught me how to embrace myself so hard that i could make space for parts of you to seep into me, make the c (sea) of confusion into the c (sea) of courage. wonwoo, you, you taught me that the scissors that separated us when the universe was created, only did that because we look so much better as patchwork. i am making my way to your side one stich at a time - each time you inspire me to do something as great as you do - and when the last stitch is closed, all i will do is embrace you and tell you that i am the complement of your cloth, that together we are patchwork.
• i remember how badly Midas wanted to be you back in the day. there is art that cause revolutions on the streets in dirty and clean hands alike, and there is art that remains on richly textured and neatly painted walls. you, taehyung, are both. you are like a painting made not with a material brush but one commissioned by God to be made with the same strokes of air that which lives but is not human. you are the same art that hangs on God's wall after he has rolled out all human products keeping his favorite for himself, and you are the same art i march with on the streets, whether my hand is clean or dirty, because i carry you not with my hands but with my heart.
• i love calling you seokmin more than i love calling you DK. it's only because why would someone a slice when they can have the whole pizza? i want every slice of who you are, the spicy slice covered with jalapenos in your favorite green color, the warm slice coated with four layers of different types of cheese, the vibrant seokmin slice which has enough types of vegetables to nourish a whole planet, the slice of talent on which everything is baked to perfection, the dark slice where the ingredients are slightly burnt and bitter, and the last unknown slice that you keep for just yourself as you gulp it down with cola. don't worry, though. this seokmin pizza wouldn't give me the conventional stomatchache, for it has always given me the kind of nausea that happens when butterflies invade your insides and think of it as an amusement park.
• soonyoung, you, you are passion incarnate, eyes quaking with a desire, the epitome of living. for i watch you paint canvases with the art of his elegant dance as nonexistent gusts carry you, you defy the concept of gravity, of human nature. as what separates you from icarus, is that you fly without wings, carried by the moon’s whispers, as you hear them to be operas. you glides with the caress of such impalpable winds. rather, it is you who carry them. though i embrace this, as i watch you live life the way it should be lived, as you yourself are a spectacle. you are one with the water, one with the silent moon, one with the music. you are life. and as i watched you, tides rose and i felt as though the moon was my own. you are my passion, and i yearn to live life the way you do so.