listen, jake:

listen, we used to be happy and now every time i drink generic lemonade i think of you. i sit at a round table and eat scalloped potatoes and drink lemonade but i don't miss you. i don't miss us. i miss the idea of us.

listen, my brother is starting confirmation and that's where our story started. it ended with a few unsent letters, some poetry, a lot of regrets and a single methodist cross on a chain that i would come to reuse.

listen, regret tastes a lot like lemonade and feels like blue silk beneath my feet and looks like hammers and strings tangled up alone onstage.

listen, i don't know if i loved you or the idea of you, but it doesn't matter now. what is will be.

listen, it's hard to get over our tangled limbs and tangled hearts like spiderwebs: breaking. but i know i will.

listen, we don't have anything to apologize for anymore. we knocked over the vase and the flowers died and we are still only human. there are things we cannot fix even if we wanted to.

listen, if i loved you i loved you because you fit perfectly into my story: my dramatic foil, my object of yearning just out of reach. my friend. when taken apart at the seams i am a writer, and i wrotes us poignant and tragic but i don't write "happilyeverafter"s. not for you and me. not anymore.

listen, i sometimes tell strangers how much i miss you. they believe it but i'm not sure i do. (your number is listed as "just don't" in my cell phone, so if i see you on my caller id, i won't ask myself if i should pick up the phone.)

listen, all i ever wanted was to turn us into something beautiful. since then, rain storms and flourescent post it notes have taught me that tragedy is beautiful, so maybe i succeeded after all. sunrises, my poetry and i used to be beautiful in your eyes. it still wasn't enough.

listen, lately i've learned that letting go means wanting to.

listen, i might never see you again, but whenever i hear that song or drink generic lemonade i will think of you. maybe i'll be happy.