In the Pink

Goodbye my friend.

It wasn't long, our brief acquaintance, but it was fun.

I liked your approach, the way you looked at things, your take on this or that – the way you analyzed and compared.

I liked the fact that you liked my work, you compared my writing to some of the all-time greats – frankly, had it been on the table as an option, I'd have fucked you for that alone.

It wasn't, of course – you were very careful to state in no uncertain terms how you valued and appreciated my situation. How you had no intention of overstepping any self-drawn or otherwise established boundaries.

Meeting you face to face was an experience worthy of a blog post itself – as I told you, just before we parted company, I believe. You smiled shyly, and told me you'd look forward to it with bated breath.

Is your breath still bated?

Who knows if you'll read this. No one knows where you are, or what's going on with you. Was I lucky to receive the farewell note, or was it the underlying reason for your departure?

I think not. I hope not.

I'll miss you, friend. If any event was ever indicative of the fleeting nothingness that life is as it passes, it was knowing you.

I hope you're well, and happy, and that the disaster that I fear in my neurotically-charged heart, as a result of my active writer's imagination is merely a figment of the latter, and not a reality. Even if that would make the reason for your departure something less comfortable as far as I was conerned.

I can't help who I care for. I'm a good friend, had you stuck around long enough, you'd have found that out for yourself.

I wish you only the best.