my heart breaks

knowing you won't see this

but maybe you will

from the view you have

up in the stars.

crisp memories written in ink;

you, the confronter of

bikers in bars.

wearing an red jacket as you

stared down a bull

at the mere age of three.

fighting naked men for

being complete asshats.

the ultimate blackjack

playing dynamo.

70 whole years

you've lived.

299 days since

you've died.

8 days until

your birthday.

time really flies.

to say I miss you,

is an understatement.

I really hate you lately.

You know I don't mean that, right? I don't feel that way deep down. It's just that my mouth misses you more than heart understands your distance...and my mouth is hell of a lot louder.

I get really jealous when I see those Tumblr posts about how old friends can call each other after a long time has passed and pick up right where they left off.

Not jealous so much of the picking up where we left off bit...

Just of the part where they're perfectly okay with the long time having passed. I think it sucks, and it is intellectually unacceptable to me that I seem to be in the minority on this.

Why is that consequence of life so mainstream now? Why do we as a species so universally fail to matchmake attention givers? We're like racquetball players with no walls; the score's nothing-to-nothing no matter how hard I hit it.

I would bother sending this letter to you, but the only thing worse than not hearing from you at all is hearing from you much later that you just found my letter at the bottom of a pile of mail and who knows how long it's been there.

It's post-marked, you monumentally ignorant-sometimes, atrociously unapologetic, center of your own universe who I love more than life itself but really hate lately.

It's me, Stevo, remember me?

It's been so very long since we last met I almost convinced myself that you would have forgotten me.

But I couldn't forget you, and the time we spent together, and I always meant to write but I figured that you wouldn't even read my letter, but here I am now, a little older and perhaps a little wiser.

So then, how are you and how have you been? I hope you're well, and that you didn't give up on university like you said you planned to do. I always admired that about you, your commitment to learning, I never told you because I was a jerk.

Are you seeing anyone? I mean, we could maybe meet up for a coffee sometime and I don't know, just talk. I always felt I could talk to you openly you know?

If you don't want to meet up then maybe we could just write each other? I hope you feel that I'm still around, because I am, I always was.

I got to go. Please write, the usual address.

ps We could meet at The Library if you feel like it, there's a new coffee shop right next door.

I thought you were my best friend. When I first moved there, you were the second person to regularly talk to me-the first being Kate. We became close during our production of "The Mystery of the Manger", where we had the two lead roles, and I thought we'd be friends forever. And for a year and a half, we were the best of friends. We made movies with your sister's camera, we had sleepovers, and bought formals from thrift shops to parade in. We even built our secret place in the empty lot near your house, and set off fireworks, and kept quite about the time you jumped on your dad's car.

And then it all started to change. All of a sudden, I wasn't good enough for you. I was the annoyance, the fly buzzing in your ear, the mosquito biting your arm. And you started to hate me. At first it was just ignoring, choosing to be with others instead of me. And then you would parade your new friends in front of me, flaunting them in my face, as they stood where I once stood, oblivious to your schemes. And then came the comments, the snide remarks and hurtful words. The way you mocked, debased, and abhorred me.

And I will not lie: perhaps one of the happiest days of my life was when you moved. Though you kept up the pretence of freindship-through email and Facebook and such-we both knew it to be a ruse. I do not know why you tried.

And I do not know why you did those awful things, and, the thing is, I don't need to. And though you never asked for (nor probably even thought of) my forgiveness, I do forgive you. Not for you to feel better, but because it is the right thing to do, what a good person should do. And without forgiving you, I could never move on.

Although I was not glad it happened, I am glad it's past. I've learned a lot from your atrocities-how I never should behave, how to recognise a liar, how a true friend should (or in your case, should not) act. Part of this experience has made me who I am. It has made me choose my friends carefully and guard myself.

As you escalated, I think you hurt you more than you hurt me-which, at the time, was excruciatingly hard to believe. And for that, I feel sorry for you. I pity you for your insecurities.

But sometimes I wonder: maybe it was I who was all along too good for you.

I must have written this letter a thousand times. In a hundred different ways and still the words I want to speak escape me. And still I try, knowing you will never see this or any other that I write. A ghost who haunts my memories. Fading as time passes but never forgotten. I wonder if you are watching over me from the vast spaces of nothingness. Sometimes the thought reassures me. Others it embarrasses me. I wonder if it was you who whispered in my ear. An uncharacteristic move brought with it a familiar face sitting at the bar. Drunk. In need of a friend. He told me he was sorry for the accident. It should have been him instead of you. A weight and chains that held him down for years. And when I said there was nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't his fault. That you would not blame him either. The bonds fell away in a visible relief. And your brother smiled. A smile much like yours. And I was smitten. United by law and tragedy. And for that I say thank you my little ghost. Trapped in time never to see past the age of 23. I really do miss you.

We have not spoken in many years, which seems to be très chic in our family to do in the last three generations. Through this time I have changed from that scared little lost pup into a well worked sled dog, but also maintaining that wild side, that wolffish side that comes out ever so often that it even has a trademark smirk along with a sense of anarchy which has given me much of a challenge to subdue when those around me find it absolutely mandatory to cram me into a mold. I suppose you are doing moderately well in the fact that I have not been contacted with a notice of passing. I, as I always have been found to be, am doing well and within moments of becoming that much more successful than my ancestors, as I am not in collusion with druggers and thieves. My close compatriots are very respectable and are upstanding citizens in their own rights. I am nearly living La Bohème, with artists and musicians, although in this instance we do not live squalor like or attend bars every free moments. We sit upon the very turning point of the future, carrying all that we have learned forward as a lesson only to be uttered and never reenacted by our progeny. Do keep in touch, as we have these last few years, because this silence speaks louder and with more vigor than you could ever muster.

Sincerely,

A son lost due to drug addiction via the matron.

I know it's been seven years since we've seen you and we don't really talk but I just wanted to let you know we'll be coming down soon. After Christmas. The family and I. I know you don't really like my mother and you haven't even seen some of your grandkids...ever. I also heard you that you aren't feeling too good lately. I heard that you might have Alzheimer's. I heard that it ran in your family. I hope that's not true, even with everything you've put us through. I also read the poems you wrote for me and Abbey when we were born. I loved them very much. Thank you. I just have one question (though I know you'll never answer it) Why do you despise us? What did we do? What did I do? Please don't tell me that I'm not old enough to understand. I'm not a child anymore.

So this is the letter to you that I'll never send. I hope you understand this is hard on us all.

Love,

Your Rosebud

It's been a year or two since you've gone . I still miss you. I told myself it's get easier , I told myself I'd heal. But it doesn't get easier and I'll never heal from this completely. I just want to know you're doing okay , wherever you may be now . I believe deep down you're in heaven right now , or at least that's what I hope. I read an old letter once , which wasn't meant for my eyes, it was crumbled up and tore in places. It said you didn't believe in God and that right there had killed me. Before I read that letter I had a little hope of seeing you again , for maybe we'd meet in heaven .. But if you don't believe you don't get to go .. Isn't that how it works ? If you believed in it I know that you'd make it to heaven . You were such a selfless man. You'd give the shirt off your back to a person in need without thinking twice about it. You cared more about everyone else then to worry about yourself . You lived a tough life that I know , and it is very upsetting. I know it was hard, and I understand you had to let go, but couldn't you wait any longer? Just long enough for me to hug you, or simply say good bye . Don't feel bad for leaving all of us behind, we know it's better wherever you are now. Life here was hard for you, you struggled with each and every day. I just want you to know I love you, and miss you more with each and every day. I wish you were still here, but do not feel guilty . Maybe we will meet again one day and I'll be able to tell you I love you.

Rest in peace Uncle Grady,

You are truly missed .

- S.N.M

dear miles,

it's been a while, huh? three years, actually; i know you always liked to be exact. i know that may not seem like a lot of time for some people, but for me it has been eons.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you still called me every night. for the first month you were gone, you called each evening without fail. now i'm lucky to get a text from you on my birthday.

ouch, right?

when you moved, you made me a promise. you told me we'd still be best friends, and i believed you. i had no doubts. none. and maybe that's what hurts most of all: the fact that i had so much faith in you, but it all disintegrated by the end of the month.

i'm not trying to guilt trip you, miles. i just want you to come home. to talk to me again. to let me know you still care.

that is, if you still do. i'm not sure where you stand at this point, wheelchair boy (shut up, i know you're laughing and i didn't intend that pun).

so show me. show me you care, show me you still want to be my friend. show me you miss me as much as i miss you. write me back.

i dare you.

sincerely,

knee brace girl

p.s. yes, of course i still have the knee brace. i'm a dancer, what did you expect? now stop reading and go write me a letter.