Letters on the Wind: The Boy


Dear _____,

I think of you often. The way you used to mean so much, yet gave so little. The way you drew me in, made me want to morph into something different, altered my perception, changed my soul.

Your heart didn’t know what your words did to me — Did your mind? I was a passing fancy — An object to enjoy as long as possible before tossing me off into the wind. At the time, you loved me… Maybe? Maybe — Maybe just snippets of me. Now, years later — I simply don’t know.

Long after I ceased to exist for you, I still remember what you felt like. Your scent. Your swagger. You… as you appeared to me in your tortured glory.

No, you never intended to imprint yourself on me and, seriously, I never wanted it… But it happened. Looking back at it, whatever it is, all of this seems so inevitable. When it comes to tragic figures, I can’t stay away and you always paint yourself so tragically. Like some pained poet living in the words of others, yet never truly filling your own skin.

Even now, with your angst, your dark quotes, the endless mystery of someone we both know never truly existed yet stands before us in the flesh just the same. It makes me wonder who you’ll be next — When all is over, where will you end up?

I heard your voice the other day and it said the cruelest stupidest things. It laughed along with the jokes that were, on some level, about me and others like me. (If we exist — maybe my collective we is just me?) I heard the words. I heard the implication and a message that only I could perceive: “I don’t care about you,” it cried… and I couldn’t anymore. I severed the ties, stopped looking… Stopped caring (as if I could ever really stop caring)… Stopped wanting to notice you.

So… I guess this is goodbye for now. I hope that somewhere along your journey you find yourself hidden behind the facade of what you’ve become.

Your (sometimes) friend,


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