I would be a liar if I said that everyone has hurt me in some way. Because not everyone has. One person has not.

You're not an angel. I haven't called you that in so long. It's a terrible thing, to demand that a person lives up to an idea in your head. It nearly drove you to madness, because you tried too hard to be the angel we all wanted you to be. I sometimes wonder if you thought that if you weren't an angel, we'd find you to be a demon. But oh, out of all of us--you are the least likely to have darkness.

But I came to a point when I realized just how unfair it was, to call you holy and pure. You're human, just like me. You have highs and you have lows. You don't have horns, you don't have a halo. You're just flesh and bone, and even though I find you as one of the most beautiful things in this world--you are just human. I love you for your humanity.

You're not a pure thing, you're not holy. You're not a sacrament that I couldn't bear to look because of the godlike divinity that radiates from you. But you have such a beautiful kindness--and God is known for kindness and love, if anything.

I used to feel jealous that I knew so little of the path you had taken. I didn't know what it was like in the woods you explored. I didn't know who owned your heart, who broke it, and why. I still don't know things about you, and I still wonder. But I know who you are now, and I think that's the most important thing. It doesn't matter where a person has been, but who they are because of it. I suppose the reason I did have almost an obsession with knowledge of you, is because I had given you volumes of biography of  my life. And to let you hold the rawness of my past, and find nothing in return--it scared me. I was afraid. But you hold me so gently, so carefully. You see past the burdens that I carry, and you notice the man who quivers under the weight of it all. The way you see the world is lovely. 

You have never hurt me, not once. Everyone else is this world has found a way through the chinks in my armor, but not you. You haven't even tried. The only thing that could even remotely resemble pain of your doing is the pain I've given you. I've hated to hurt you. I almost resent the fact that you love me, because I know that if you didn't love me you'd never have to worry. 

I won't say the 't' word, because you always fuss when I do. But you and I both know just how much you mean to me, and what you've done means to me. I'm not fool enough to think that we'll last forever, but even if we don't I know that we've both found a little bit of ourselves in each other. I'll never forget some of your wisdom, and you'll never forget some of mine. My fondest memory was when you took a part of your sky and gave it to me, and the ferocious blue stained my hands. I suppose only you will understand what I mean by that.

I'm always afraid of wasting my words. But I know that when I've said and written them for you--they could never be a waste. I'm afraid of meaninglessness, but with you I have found nothing but poignancy.

There are things and people who I wish I wouldn't remember. But you, darling, are someone I hope to never forget. (and I know I never will)