Do it.

That's fine.

Leave me behind.

Forget about me,

It's what I deserve.

I won't choke on your memory's dust.

But I will mimic the words I mean, too.

I am still here.

I talked about you the other day.

I put you in a paper that I handed in to my favorite class.

Advanced Non-fiction prose.

And my favorite professor.

He delights in the idea

Of us "communicating" through vague writings.

He thinks it's amazing.

I told him you're amazing.

You are, through by subjective eyes.

Other wise, I don't know you.

I don't know if I ever did.

Or if you ever knew me.

If you just pasted your favorite memory of me

over my real face.

Maybe that's why you were so disappointed in me.

Of me.

I still think of you when I write sometimes.

When I try to get it all down on paper,

and I know no one will understand.

I think about you because

You never understood.

But I still tried.

Class is over now.

Just thought I'd say hi.

I'm glad you're writing again.