Truth is, I haven't forgotten about you. I know we're over, and you're never coming back. We're two different people. We always had been. I still don't know where your at, but I hope you're okay. Let this be our message in a bottle, should you ever get curious enough to walk the shorelines of the place we used to meet. I half-hope you don't ever go back there. If you do, you'll stumble upon every other inebriated, embittered, hollow rant I've written down, stuffed in empty bottles of Jack that I've been writing all these years. You'll come to see quickly just how much I've been hurting. How angry I've become. Just how much the hate has eaten away at me. You'll be so disheartened to see just how much the boy you fell in love with has changed for the worst. You, who taught me what love was, would be hurt the most by my downward spiral into anger and contempt. The words written in those bottles, however, are no fault of your own. Truth is, I don't know just where the blackness began to taint me. All I know is the infection's rate of spread was exponential and unmerciful. It contaminated every fiber of my being. But, as you read those spiteful, scorned letters of enmity, know that I never once hated you. I... Suppose my sadness took on a life of its own soon after you left me. After awhile, it must've mingled with confusion in respect to why I had been left behind by my only angel, which spawned anger. As the anger raged within like the aftermath of a ***** bomb, I took to dousing the fire with alcohol, but forgot that alcohol makes a fire flare up more. And within my constant state of anger, I was allowed too much time to contemplate with my muddled mind. My thoughts grew dark, and from the bleakness burst forth an ill-conceived hatred that was a mask--a bandage?-- no, an excuse, to wallow in my lonlieness and heartache. I forgot the lessons you had taught me along the way. I forgot the meaning of mercy. But most of all, I forgot what you said about letting go. Truth is, I failed you. The day you left to go find yourself, I gave up. I don't remember trying not to keep on caring. The apathy makes me almost amnestic. But, through all of it I remembered your face. That smile. Your kiss. The future we talked about. I guess that didn't really do much for my outlook, but I remembered because they meant something to me. In short, I'm sorry if you think I hate you. I don't. I never could. The anger is something I'll have to learn to work through. The sadness will never fade, but I'll learn to not drown myself in rotgut just to cope. You never were why I wrote so many inebriated, embittered, hollow rants, or drank the bottles to stuff them in. Truth is, I'm the bad guy.