You know I hate it when you dog-ear the pages because that means I have to go back when you’re asleep and fold them out straight again. Or maybe you don’t know; I don’t either. I don’t think I ever told you it bothers me.

I drew some blood again and I said Charlie, if I don’t know what I’m doing, then we’re both in trouble now, aren’t we? You’re always the one behind the door. Always the one taping things to mirrors; things about yourself, things you like, things you wish you were. Always the one working alone in the elevator, making sure you could see you, and that you looked alright. Of course you do, dummy. Of course you look alright.

Remember that night we went to the stars in the woods? Everything was so red. Everything was so clear. Pluto, far far away. You said it looked so small, and I guess that was true since we don’t count it anymore, do we? You did that, somehow. But then again, you never really needed any of us. The stars, the sun, or me. The stars you kept, because who wouldn’t? If you were handed the whole wide world, you’re telling me you wouldn’t keep the potential of a great white flaming death in your hand? I know I didn’t deal you a great deck; I know you did the best you could, and sometimes you’d win and maybe sometimes I would too. That wasn’t the worst part, the part you’d tell your friends. You keep up appearances, and I still breathe like I used to. Nothing wrong there.

But, you know, you hate appearances, and you hate the breath we shared when I was around. I could count the minutes you spent wishing I was gone. That doesn’t mean I left. That doesn’t mean you hated me, or that you hated when I was gone. Our hands were always cold, but that wasn’t your fault.  I just wish you cared a little more. I wish you weren’t so far away, but that’s not really up to me. You were always in some other orbit, and ours weren’t supposed to meet. So soon you’ll collide with someone else. Someday soon, it won’t be me, and that’s okay.

Baby, be good out there.