~

However often Steely Dan says
all that I am thinking,
he never says
all that I need to say.

I guess that's why I'm putting this into writing.
I guess that's why I'm taking this from my heart,
which will die,
and putting it on paper,
which will die as well,
only much later.

I want to matter.
I want to relate this to you,
my friends,
in a way that is worth something.
In a manner that is in no way resembling
my usual upheaval
of mismatched,
poorly chosen words,
spoken in a drunken
and sobering
slur.

To You:
However often and warmly I think of you when the sun is out, my midnight thoughts of you are always cold, always confused, and always sickening. I'm truly sorry for this. It's always been me.


To The First:
You entered my mind at about the same time you entered my life,
which is uncasually unusual for matters such as these.
I believe this to be the first of many mistakes we made.


To The Last:
We've all been hurt.
We've all cried and
we've all hated the same person that we love.
But no one deserves to be whole more than you do.
No one deserves a friend more than you,
you,
the one named Robin.
I know not your life,
nor the story you wrote about,
on a desperately, obviously rainy day in March.
All the best to you.