Written So It Won’t Be Read.

You never liked being corrected; never liked being correct.
So no matter what is written, it won’t please you.
But I would like to try. Suspend your sarcasm and disbelief.
We should be friends. Friends that talk often, that discuss the world and life and politics. We should be friends who talk every day.
I miss you.
We should be friends who talk every day because that is certainly how often I check my email, my facebook, my phone, hoping that something will have changed.
Something has changed, but I don’t really understand why. It could be a ramp to eventual communication or it could be the final step in completing separation – removing now unnecessary self-censorship.
Something has changed, and as much as I want to believe it is for the better, I remember your over-reasoned melancholy too well to trust my optimism.
Let me be clear then: I should have really given you that second chance I seemed so close to granting. You could have fixed the problems I worried so about. You would have, I know.
I should have given you that second chance because even though he was not the reason I broke up with you, he was the reason I didn’t come back. And that was never fair to you.
I should have said that sooner. The guessing was unduly hard on you, and now you are certain I am full of mendacity and malevolence – or at least, you see no reason why anything I say should matter, should mend, should serve the purpose I desperately push it towards.

If it were up to me, we would talk every day. But for the last six months it has been up to you, and we haven’t spoken at all.
And that, I suppose, says everything.