you're going to write me a year from now to say something nice. you're going to tell me something that will make me smile, make me think about us. i'll miss you. i'll wonder why you wrote me and i'll want to reach back to you. and, then, i'll think, 'why?' WHY did you do that? and i'll remember that you're not writing to me but you're writing to yourself. just like i'm doing right now. a futile exercise in justifying my actions, my thoughts, your actions, your thoughts, and i'll wonder, 'what's your point?' and, after a small galaxy-sized battle in my heart, i'll realize...i'll surmise...there is no point. there is no resolve. and, just like how we can't always understand why we do what we do...how a man can do something unconscionable...kill...rape...steal...hang up the phone...crush a heart...i won't understand, EVER [never ever] how you did what you did to me and i will still love you. because that's the way i am even though, since you left me, i met an angel. i met an angel.