For Chris.

I had just finished re-reading all my "writings", all those daydreams caught on paper, and it became evident to me why you left. It's not that I was attached, not that I was crazy; it wasn't your regular break-up.

I wrote an ode to my best friend, to my drunk dad, hell, I wrote to the stars. Anything to avoid writing to you. Trust me, it wasn't that I didn't love you, I did. I do.

No, it wasn't a matter of love, but what it was, I can't say for sure. I used to spend all of my time, sitting, writing. Writing about the people, the things, that meant something to me. But you meant the most, you always did, and every time I sat down, nothing came.

Actually, I figure I can tell you now, that that's a lie. Words came, inexplicable sad ones, I just hated to think they stemmed from you.

It's always said that women have great intuition. Maybe that's what it was; some part of me that knew you better than I wanted to, so I held back. You just weren't word-worthy, not then.

Honestly though, the reasons don't matter, because now you can't say I never wrote anything for you.