This is that letter…you know –
the one I never wrote,
the promise I made in some emotional haze
of sentiment and gratitude
because it’s ALWAYS sentiment and gratitude –
that keep-in-touch and friends-for-life
group hug mentality that falsely suggested
correspondence could possibly ensue
from an otherwise lazy self-centered
and self-loathing retard such as myself.

Well here it is. You know,
the one I never wrote.
This is where the how you’ve beens
and what’s been new and true
imply somehow that a consistently apathetic
me must have cared enough to wish to write
but not enough to put pen to paper
now resigned to guilt and cheap conceit
implying some significance
and stretched importance to us both.

This is an awkward letter. You know,
the one I never wrote –
the uncomfortable outpouring of souls
to total strangers convinced of kinship,
convinced that distance and context
could be bridged by exchanging pleasantries
hidden within phrases of “remember me?”
with the vague assumption that
you even know who I am. Of course you do –
I am, after all, an egotist.

This is a heartfelt letter, you know –
the one I never wrote –
the one that would have thanked you
for who you are and what you mean to me –
The one that would have made you smile
and warmed your heart with memories
and images of distant worlds
polished and faded by passing time
the time I did not take to pen a note
you know, the one I never wrote.