this i wrote the other day, after some pondering the way certain things went in certain relationships. why am i being vague, please, it's about greg, anyone with a brain could figure that out. he told me himself he doesn't read this anymore. what a coincidence, i try to keep mysel from reading his too.

I used to wish, a long time ago, that you would write about me. I wanted you to put onto paper the words you said to me all too rarely; I wanted something of you that I could hold in my hands. I wanted to be able to run my hands over the indentations formed by your pen, to feel you there. I wanted to read your words over and over, until they resounded in my mind like the chords of a favorite tune.
I know what you will say when you read this. You will say that you didn’t know, that I should have told you. You will think communication has always been my greatest problem (the irony of it, that a lover of language could never express herself to you). Oh, but I tried to tell you, many times, and you never seemed to understand. I told you once that what I wanted more than any gift was a letter from you, wasn’t that a clue?
There was a time when I read your work constantly, wondering if you would ever mention me. You told me that you didn’t write about love; you only drew on your darker emotions. You said that I made you happy, but you could never reflect that in your writing. Even knowing the emotions you tapped into were only memories, it pained me to know that it was you seeing these dark images of life.
It was only after our time together ended that I got what I had desired. You did write about me, but not as I had so often wished; there was only bitterness and anger in your words. The irony was overwhelming—only after I hurt you and left you did you find it in yourself to write about me. Did loving me never spark you to put pen to paper? Sometimes when I thought about you, the feelings of love would just well up inside me, filling me so completely that I just had to write, had to get some of it out, or I thought I would explode. What I wrote was by turns inspired, sweet, and utterly nonsensical, but there it was, on paper, proof that emotion could transform even me into a grinning idiot. I wanted so badly for you to feel the same way.
If you are wondering now if this was important to me, yes, it really was, more than I ever could have told you, and more than you probably could have understood. At the end of it all, there is nothing left to say but yet another goodbye.