On a scale of how ironic, it's somewhere between The Casque of Amontillado and Oedipus Rex.
It's almost as ironic as JFK's last words.
It's painful, simply antagonizing and hurtful; unfair of the fates and ever so cruel of the gods to leave us here- with only this flimsy fence left as the space between us.
Miles, my dear, we've traveled miles. Hundreds of miles and then even some more. We've climbed mountains to avoid the thieves, trekked through jungles to evade murders, and crossed deserts just so I could give you a future.
And yet there's this space between us.
We made it my dear, even if just barely. Even if you're sister was raped, by men she never knew, then tossed aside like garbage to the side of the dirt road. Even if your father was killed by the cartel, for having the courage to fight, and his brother gunned down by dirty, rotten police. Even if we're the only ones who did, we made it.
And now here we stand. Separated by chain-link, restrained by officers. The world frowns upon our love my dear, oh how I wish it weren't so. They fear us like they fear the snake, for our misapprehended nature. We flee evil, not bear it, yet they think this false. This land of honey has soured, and exchanged dreams for night terrors- paradise has fallen.
These tears I shed are solely for you, for the memories we'll never make- this love you'll never know. I leave you with these last words, something to always remember and know: although the space between us grows, my love will never grow cold.
