Dearest Peter,

I went too far.  

And for that I can only say this: it's a burden that I carry on me.

But you were never concerned for me, were you?  You were never the one clawing at my legs, screaming at me to slow down.  And now when I'm falling out the fifth story window, all at once it feels like home.  The ground... it seems like home.  

And I'm tired, Peter.  Because you never are.  And someone has to be.

So stop asking me if she loves you back.  

Because I'm thinking about you.  I'm thinking about you like my dad thinks about work, and like ghosts think about breathing.  Like poets think about suicide; like you think about suicide.  

So what else do you want me to say?  I'm sorry I can't fix you, I guess I just don't equate.  I guess I just don't equate to you.  Is that what you want to hear?

I'm stuck on that poem you wrote last December.  You said it was about me.  And I didn't get it.  All I know is that I wish it were last December, just to remember what it felt like to be thought of like that.