G is for Gertrude who choked on a peach; F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leach

I would like to write to you here, write as freely and honestly as though you will never see these words. Unfettered by thoughts of your reactions, I can write clearly and precisely as much as I can whimsically and irrationally. You will never know.

But I would like to write to you here with the urgency that would only push my fingers to type faster if I expected you here any minute now, and I have so much to say, just so much to tell you. Repetitive though it may be, I could tell you over and over for I know you don't listen.

I want to write to you here and say everything that gets overlooked in angry and in desperate partings. I want to write about the fine details, the truths and the lies, the many many moments in black and white and sparse and factual pieces.

I want to believe you would seek my words to you, that I mattered enough for you to find me interesting enough to follow at a distance, if only occasionally, if only half-heartedly.

I want you to leave me alone.