How do you...

How do you love me in all my undeserving and never having touched a single fallen curl now resting on my breast? The thought you put into those things that are the bringers of my happiness spanning over the torment and the rough of oceans... How do you drown in this so hopeful?
 
How does your mind know my own, how does it know to love me to my fall? How? Tell me...
I feel you're wanting me, like the winds against my skin before a tropical storm. I feel you're missing me like hunger starves the hungry. I taste your fervor on the tip of a wet pen's write and know not how you do what you do with intent to me and still keep your sanity loving my craze. How is this?
 
How can you stop my thoughts and freeze my feet in its obedient path when you are continents away, and why do I take heed to them in my pause...always.  
 
How is one man so perfect for one woman imperfect... but not, and yet is. How do you survive my torment I give to you with every living absence and silence, then speak so sweetly to my confusion as if it was but a leaf on an east winds whim.  
 
Is this the torment spoken of by perished lovers whose death made famous the love letters they lived and loved through? Is this ours?  
 
How do you speak the words that delve into the library of my soul's greatest novels? How is it that a soul does not belong to its mate? How can this be? Or, is this our love letter's storied fate? And if it is, how can this love story end, when it has never had a beginning?