And if I told you I missed you, what of it anyway? Would you shrug me off, crumple up the letter I sent that memo on and toss it deep into the gutter where all dead memories end up, rain-soaked and spattered with hefty, hideous debris? Would you laugh in my face cruelly as I stood outside on your doorstep awaiting a time when you would answer when the doorbell rang? And would that give you satisfaction after all those years when we danced together and laughed together and found solace in each other’s deep understanding and company? Or would you go and do something so incredibly unthinkable and so painfully blatantly slighting that I would only be left speechless, even though I said words that made sense to me, that were from the deepest reservoirs in my heart, and you chose – adamantly chose – to ignore them, disregard them, leave them lying on the bathroom shower floor as they spiraled thickly down the drain? And when I’m telling you now that I miss you and I wish things weren’t this way and I want back what we had and I wish you’d never done what you did, and know that if I was never with you that night and we’d never have shared that special time together, or maybe if my life had taken a different path and I wasn’t doing what I’m about to do, that we’d still be happy and we’d still love each other… when I tell you all of this in the plainest language I can possibly muster up — what difference would it make at all? In the end, it wouldn’t. It never would. It never could. And here I am, at 1:12 a.m. on June 2, 2013, telling you. Because you refuse to ever listen.