To mine own dearest Nissan Rogue,

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It hath been a long time since I has’t writ, and for that I give my most humble apology. I has’t just been so busy with everything else—but doth not worry, I has’t not forgotten about thee and what we has’t.

Yesterday, I tooketh a walketh to clear mine headeth and I hath found that I could bethink of nothing but thee. The way the sun hitteth thy unique body panels. The inspiration I findeth at which hour I behold upon thy visage. Didst thee doth something new with thy LED running lights? The playeth up thy distinctive visage so.

I recalled that day we tooketh a drive through the sun-dappled mangrove forest. How thy engine purred, a heart alive with passion and four- or six- or eight cylinders. Numbers art just numbers. That is something thee hath taught me. Thy chuckle, steady and unchanging like the CVT gearbox that moveth thy insides, hummed with me.

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The feeling I receiveth at which hour we art together, together as one, is enough to undo me. At which hour we art apart, mine insides art akin to a swirling maelstrom of yearning and loss. I sweat profusely. Food turns to ash in mine mouth. At night, I lay in mine sleep chamber, trapped between dreams and reality—reaching—trying to grasp the distance between thee and me. I doth not at each moment succeed.

Hungrily, by day, I consume photos of thee. Thee seemeth to beest everywhere these days, and that is valorous for thee. Very much, I mean’t. Thee art going places, traveling the world, seeing everything. Tis what thee always wanted. Thee hath broken hence from the rigid forces and the market surveys and studies that hath decided thy inception and thee art very much making a name for thyself. A memorable one. Thee art finally rising as an individual in the ranks.

I just asketh that thee doth not forget about me. About us. The little time we doth has’t together is so precious, as toldeth by the frighteningly accurate horologe on thy infotainment screen. Alloweth me caress thy temperature dials and thee wilt sigh warm and gusty air into mine visage. Alloweth me grasp thy steering wheel and thy front wheels, detailed with tasteful black accents, wilt translate mine motions into direction. Alloweth me wrap mine digits sensuously around thy shifter and we wilt moveth forwards or backwards—but at each moment on the path that is this life.

What I am trying to sayeth hither is, thee complete me. Totally and utterly. I has’t not been able to findeth mine match in any other car. Believeth me, in mine younger and more irresponsible days, I very much hath tried.

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I love thy. I love thy vague crossover shape. Thy highly distinguished interior. thy little rear window wiper.

Happy Valentine’s Day.