If You're Reading This

I'm coming to see you. 

Like. 

The day after tomorrow. 

I'm pretty sure you're gonna talk about what a crazy wackadoodle I am after I'm gone but I don't even care. 

Actually. 

I'm pretty sure you won't talk about me at all. 

You're a gentleman. 

And a bit of a quiet lonesome cowboy. 

You probably won't speak of it at all. 

But Lord only knows what you'll be thinking. 

That I'm quite certain I have no idea. 

I feel differently now. 

And I guess maybe that's why I decided it was time for me to show up. 

I'm not mad anymore. 

In fact I felt for the first time this week like I actually understand why you did what you did. 

And it feels really nice not to want to set you on fire anymore. 

I'd actually just like to give you a hug. 

But I'm not expecting that. 

In fact I'm not expecting anything. 

I'm prepared for apathy and silence. 

So if anything beyond that happens I will sip content. 

My friend told me I should treat it as though it were the last time I ever saw you. 

And I liked that. 

There was something simple and satisfying in that. 

Celebrating a moment in itself. 

As it is. 

Without looking beyond it for further satisfaction. 

Without needing it to continue. 

Or be anything. 

I'm rewriting your character in my story. 

I couldn't bear for you to simply become The Ghost.

Because then it would be the same as if you died. 

And I don't want my stories to be tragedies. 

My life's thematic scheme is clearly comedies, as Fate laughingly continues to misguide and mislead me, far astray from the course of true love and soul mates and boys that don't block my number. 

Pretty sure you did, by the bye. But I didn't even feel bothered by it. I think it helped me finally accept your silence.

The whole having no choice thing helped too. 

But see I decided you weren't going to be lover or ghost or anything quite so major anymore. 

But you were going to go back to how you were originally cast--

Strikingly handsome, aloof, off in the haze of the background and the music, with the ever occasional cameo of showing up to say something meaningful and gaze earnestly into my eyes. 

I would sit, always, with someone else by my side, just as I had that first warm summer night. 

And my eves, as that one and each to follow would never be about You.

But. 

Me.

See your story, your tragedy is not mine. 

We two are not one. 

We are merely strangers. 

Who on very rare, very lovely nights, will share the same space. 

And move freely, separately, distantly from one another. 

With a mere momentary glance as our only connection. 

The strength of which neither of us could fathom.