I'm sorry if this seems long-winded but everything I write is short because I'm not used to speaking without you cutting me off mid-sentence and I must get these weights off my chest before they crush my lungs like the pressure that surrounds me as if I'm a deep sea diver and you are the ocean. I used to liken you to things like that. The ocean, the color blue, famous women that have courted my heart from their places in the history books: Jeanne d'Arc, Bonnie Parker, Amelia Earhart. But the wars you wages in my name were lost and my name could never rally the troops like God's. And the banks we robbed never satiated your expensive taste when everything I could offer you was more brass than gold and for that I am sorry. I never wanted you to get lost in the ocean. Your plane crashing somewhere in the vicinity of Howland Island where you sent out your last cry for help and it choked for life in the static of my busted ******* stereo. I know that this is coming out in pieces and my stream of consciousness lacks the stillness that Nature tries to instill like a watchful mother but I can't help the way all of these words and sentences keep bringing you back to life and I know now that I will never stop because what can Nature tell me about the way your lips moved when you whispered my name.