In the letter you never wrote to me, you said you missed living next to me. After you left Chicago you said, you ended up in a one room apartment with three other men with poor personal hygiene and a fondness for fondling strange women and bringing home stray cats. When we shared that little back yard skirting the edges of the city and my mom made us chocolate chip cookies and lemonade for an afternoon snack, you didn't appreciate it enough. Didn't appreciate me enough.
In the letter you never wrote to me, you said you were sorry. Sorry you left me the morning you woke up to find yourself naked in a tangled mass of blankets on my bed. You said that you hadn't meant to leave for so long, but three days distance across continents you were kidnapped by a great flying dragon that spirited you away to its cave on the mountains and forced you to play the mandolin for him to ease his heartache at the loss of his lady dragon. You said you played songs about me.
In the letter you never wrote to me, you said you hoped I was doing better than you were, since you were hiding out in the sewers on the run from the FBI and the CIA and every other secret service organization you could imagine, all for helping an alpaca escape from the zoo. You hoped that the flowers in my window box were doing well, the ones that we had planted together. You hoped that I had grown out my hair a bit and erased all the last traces of the nightmare hair cut you had talked me into as a joke. You hoped that I was doing well – that I hadn't developed some mutant tumor in my neck that had transformed into a second head and devoured every duck in sight.
In the letter you never wrote to me, you said you loved me. Even though you were wasting away in a forbidding stone tower in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by bloodthirsty sharks waiting to tear the flesh from your bones, you still thought of me every day. You wrote me letters every day that you sat there, waiting until the wind was just right to release them so that they would flap their wings like birds and find me, wherever I was. You said that if you had to die a terrible death by sharks then you were glad the last kiss you had given had been to me.
In the letter you wrote to me, you said that you lied. You were sorry you said you would write when you didn't.