It's funny how time has a way of changing things but it never changed the way I felt about you.

And oh, how everything about our relationship seemed to be hopelessly lost. And how the ending had to be, inevitably, tragic.

It was obvious that no amount of ink, nor paper, would suffice in any effort to hold us together. No notebook of words to define or describe ( or attempt to) the feelings both mutual and unshared would have ever been enough.

And so now letters sit, piling up, in notebooks and on countertops. Inside desk drawers and in trunks of cars and trash cans. The poetry trickles slowly on to paper or phone messages.

And if it's true that I wasn't enough or that you weren't the right one anyway, then I guess there's nothing to be sore at; neither of us can shoulder the blame.

I suppose, in the end, everything falls apart.

I did.