Hey you,

It seems to have been ages since we last talked. I’m sure that it really hasn’t been, if I were in a more spry mood I would actually count the days, but I am not sure it is something I have the will to do. Odd how that works, arduous days seeming to last forever, while the most precious of moments go by as fast as raindrops. It seems rather unfair that humanity is cursed with this false perception of time, but I guess it is something we have to live with.

I still miss you, though mostly that is now covered by the gruff exterior that one has to grow when there is nothing they can do about their situation. I have accepted that as a part of my life and integrated it into my being. Each day I can feel it fade just a bit more, like a scar on your hand that you watch fade away, until years later it is just a slight pink mark against the darker skin around it. I have accepted, also, that you do not miss me. At least not in the ways I wish. I know some part of you does, just as I know you frequently come here. You whisper about my written thoughts, landing lightly to peruse the selections.

I’m positive you wouldn’t admit it if it were true, and I guess that has been a resounding theme since I met you. I’m not such a big fool as you think I am, chasing something that I cannot have. I’ve given up the race, in that regard, but I still chase a dream, and the memory of a dream. Often my thoughts of you are flashes from our past, the sound of your laughter, you losing your balance while standing on the tips of your toes, the anguished sobbing you did against my arm that last morning, circles and squares, and that bright smile.

I take the bad with the good, and I remember the heartache. The stark reality that despite the beautiful, glossy surface of my memories there was a darker core that ultimately drove us apart. You blame yourself for these things, and perhaps a part of me does too. I was very angry, I still am in some ways, but I do not blame you. That was a promise I made, and I keep my promises. Why am I angry, you ask? Because in all of your studying and analysis of others, you refuse to look at yourself for what is truly there.

Perhaps I am still looking at the world through rose-colored lenses. Maybe I am the one who is refusing to look at myself, and stick to the motto “this above all, to thine own self be true.” Who can tell? We are both too stubborn to admit the problem lies within ourselves, so we will each continue on in our own ways: You believing I am nothing but a fool in love, and I believing you are a fool running from love.

I’m sure we won’t ever see each other again, nor speak to each other. I am not brave enough to break the silence for fear of finding you happy without me, and you will keep your silence for fear of breaking my heart. What a complicated world we live in. I trust, however, that you will continue to be around, silent as the wind, and I will continue to write letters to the wind.

More at Synaptic Thought.