(now we find out what you are made of, if you are weak, and if so, just how much of it makes up your composition or how little your nature.)

mike,

i'm drunk. i should start with that. the words aren't any less truthful only my pen flows with more ease. or so i like to tell myself. maybe i just need an excuse. i shouldn't have to need an excuse and i seem to remember a girl - of long ago - who had no need for excuses but i do because this is who i am and i'm sorry if who i am is not who you want me to be.

i am so upset right now. i checked my email again this afternoon and you still hadn't written back to me. i can't help but think there's something wrong here. that something has been wrong for a while. so, because i am who i am i feel the need to fix whatever it is that feels this bad. mike, how do i fix it?

maybe i'm over-reacting. maybe i'm being foolish in thinking there's anything that needs to be fixed at all. i'm sad. maybe i drank too much. no. i know i drank too much. i read one of the entries on your site and it seemed like it was directed at me. is that arrogant of me to assume? i always felt like assumtion was a form of arrogance.

i'm hurt that you think i don't care about you. i'm hurt that you think i have never given you a second thought. fuck - i know i haven't been giving you the attention you deserve but sometimes knowing something will not push aside deep and familiar inhibitions. i feel like i'm being condemned for actions i was incapable - at the time - of making. i had things that seemed more dire to my emotional and mental health. you were comfortable and safe. the only time i was ever at ease was when i was with you.

god dammit mike. you never even gave me a fucking chance. i was scraping myself together, looking for lost limbs and because i would sooner not drag you into the frayed mess you act as though i've slighted you. listen to me, every choice i make in regards to you is placed in consideration of your feelings but i cannot protect you from myself. does that only make sense to me?

i'm drunk. i'm writing you a stupid fucking letter because i'm halfway around the world and i can't bloody well talk to you. i would call you except somehow i don't think you would appreciate - or accept - a collect call. heh.

i'm SORRY that i miss you. i'm SORRY i wrote you that email if that's what this is all about. I'm SORRY that it took me this long to realize that yes, you are a special and unique individual. that yes, you do deserve better than the scraps i have been feeding you. that yes, i would like to become an active presence in your life. i'm so fucking angry with your impatience.

i was hoping i could talk to you about this in person, when i got home. i suppose my gift doesn't much matter now. i wanted to offer it as an apology of sorts. i had made this box and everytime i thought of you i would pick a small flower and put it inside. i look at it now and feel pretty fucking stupid. i mean, it's this cheap paper box filled with dried-up wilted flowers and it actually meant something to me. i was going to hand it to you and apologize for being ignorant this entire time, and attempt at explaining myself to you and propose we start anew. how foolish am i? i get tired of playing the fool.

i was in joy with you. i smiled when i was with you. i made a greater effort to be bright around you and somehow you came to think i never cared. you tried to make me laugh and i love you for it. funny the things we mean to say but never find reason enough to. as though we need reason to. shit fuck damn. i believe in fighting for the people i care about. I CARE ABOUT YOU. this is me fighting.

amber.

(and because i'll be angry with myself if i let myself forget, please make myself forget, fuck you for making me cry.)