I'm writing you this letter because I have no address to send it to, and our relationship is such as it is that if I ever see you again and tried to speak, I would flounder upon the words. All these years later, I still receive visits from you in my dreams. I'll turn and almost expect to see you sitting beside me in the car, or reading in the park when I take my lunch break. I can still remember exactly how you felt in my arms, can still taste you if I think hard enough. The journal we shared found it's final flight from my arms in the only city I ever loved, the city that has changed me so much from the boy that didn't know what to do with a love like yours. That journal full of memories, full of who we used to be, has been brought to it's final home by the Atlantic tides. What's left of the romantic in me likes to believe it was found and read by someone who needed to know that portion of our stories. I've come full circle now I think, and I'm still grappling with the same questions I was then, still locked in combat with myself. I know that you're happy though, wherever you are. My heart still tells me that much. I hope that you've been able to turn forward and live for life's sake, and if you have, please send some of that my way. I could use some of that light you always carried with you now.