Dear lover that you were,

I cannot say why it is I loved you. I can't even say what it is that makes me remember, even now--after years have passed--how I felt when we were together. How my tears were sometimes the only thing that held us together, how we sped together toward oblivion. A high school romance that never had a leg to stand on, and yet we persisted.

I also don't know why I address this letter to you. Maybe I just want you to know I haven't forgotten. Maybe I wonder if you are still out there somewhere. And I want to know what it was that happened, and why.

And the truth is, we lied to each other, and to ourselves. And the truth is, we hurt each other far more often than we gave each other what we needed. I knew that almost all along. Did you ever know it? And who is more at fault--the one who knew but did not say, or the one who knew nothing at all? Perhaps I don't want to know the answer. More likely, it doesn't matter anymore.

Still. You were my first love. My first kiss. And that means something.

In the end, there was never talk of "You done me wrong." We did each other wrong. We never promised each other the moon, but ended up bruising the fragile parts of our souls. Healing doesn't come cheap, or easy. The beauty, the pain, and the shame of us meld together into a single, moldering feeling of sadness that I remember only when I look at the moon sideways, or hear those songs from our time together.

I make it sound like our love was a romantic tragedy, and it never was that. We were ordinary, weren't we? Just kids grasping at something, needing acceptance and love, knowing that what we found wasn't quite it.

All this time and I can't forget; will never forget you. Let us forgive ourselves.

The song playing on my life soundtrack is: Recovering the Sattelites,Counting Crows

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