Dear you,

(Because it was you all along)


Let me know who you are now, because I forgot.

Maybe I just tried to make you into something I wanted you to be. Maybe unfortunately, that's how I expected you to stay.

Has it really been that long since I have last seen you? I lost track of time somewhere.

Years went by and I came back looking for you. I searched the coffee shops and the book stores. Even that one on the strip that used to be a small time cafe and then got turned into a Barnes and Noble

(like I should ever expect to find you in a chain store)



Maybe I wanted to say I'm sorry. Maybe I wanted to just see your face. Maybe it was your soft hair or deep voice or maybe, just maybe, it was just me.

Like I said, I went looking. And there you weren't.

(Maybe I should get my eyes checked)



I don't remember if I was looking for the young man with the sideburns and thick rimmed glasses and tattered gap hat or the one I saw a few years ago, with the beard and crows feet. Either way, I couldn't get a clear picture in my mind of what you would be.

I can't say that I could pick you out in a crowd. Even if it was small.

I've long forgotten most of the words we used on the all night conversations and the whiskey and the wine induced stupors. Oh occasionally I can pick up a faint signal on a long lost radio station being broadcast somewhere out of middle America and there’s a song that strikes a match.

(Usually not)


The songs lost their meaning, I forgot about the bands you used to listen to. I forgot the songs you used to play. I remember your guitar though. A tiny crack growing ever larger down the neck and a Grateful Dead sticker on the back. You've probably bought a new one and thrown it away. You've at least changed the strings a thousand times.

Long ago I dyed my hair and bought a new car and changed my phone number and got a new address to match. Maybe I was running from you. Probably so.

(I've not stopped running)


It is no longer so much running from you as it is running from who I used to be. Oh I have slowed the pace and turned around a few times but I keep pushing forward.

You may very well still be capable of picking me out across distances. You were always good at that. However it was all a matter of details, and I may have very well changed that ever so small detail that you used like radar to find me in crowds.



I heard you were back in Portland. Working in a record store and playing with a little band in the clubs on weekends. Heard you made an album but it wasn't going anywhere except into the hands of the kids who think they are ever so unique for being so clever and so emo-punk-rock.

(or whatever you call it)


At any rate, I heard you hate your so-called fans.

I heard you heard all about me and you've probably made up the details to suit your needs and give closure to yourself. That's okay. Your version of my story is probably so much better than the real one anyway.


So let me know who you are now,

because I'm not so sure that I don't want to know anymore.

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