You've a beautiful soul as to be envied. But I don't envy you. I don't even know you anymore, though we used to breathe in the same curiosity, and breathe out the same grace.

You are different now, whether you feel it or not. I feel it.

I am different now, whether you feel it or not. I feel it.

I used to be the journal you would write your most secret thoughts in, your most treasured ideals, and your most embarrassing fears. Your words used to travel through your hands, through that pen with such vivacity I cannot recall without a touch of adoration. But you haven't written in ages - the ink has long dried, and the pen has ceased to stir.

The pages, I know, are tattered now, torn from your incessant review. You cannot bear to pick up such an interfering object as a pen, yet you cannot resist the lure of your old freedoms.

My heart too, feels tattered, old and unused - unused perhaps, but not always forgotten. It holds some of you; secrets, memories, confessions, reliefs, dreams, plans. I keep it all safe, if a bit worn from my own tendency to cling.

I miss you.