and to that certain someone who will most likely never read it

You were never even in my fucking life and I miss you so.

I have not known you, I never did. I did not get to at least touch your walls and walls from the other side of it nor find the gates. You were a very strict gatekeeper, you and your purple clouds.

They say you were a bitch and a disaster and I didn't even get to see that or check it out. Just as that - for a moment you were there with me and at another one you were gone, all justifying that you weren't your true self, and maybe weren't you, but I felt your kindness and your calmness all over the places we walked and visited and sat upon.

With me you were nothing what they talked of, you were a melancholic dream come true, giving me nicknames, the one in particular - you called me Alice, as I was all in the colors of that world, all in the phrases and actions of that world you said and for that particular moment I thought that it gave you some pleasure but maybe it bothered you deeply, not that I know, not that I ever get to know that one thing.

Why on Earth cry separating if the only thing I gave you was pure torture. Must it have happened, it was the first time someone ever broke it off with me so clearly. What if, you said, I would tell you, that this is our last meeting? And I asked if it was a theoretical or maybe rethorical question but later on I found it wasn't as you repeated it when I escorted you home at that night, pure night yet not dark, not that it ever gets dark on those dreadful summer nights. Here, you said, it's your favorite bus stop, and not that I would get on any bus possible, if there still were some going. You said your words as if you paid your respects and then you hugged me, and then, of all things, you started crying. It ain't fair, then again hardly anything is. You were leaving me and you were crying.

And I feel angry somehow, though understanding you completely. I might have not known you but you told me the reasons you are leaving me for, excluding me of your life as if I would have been some kind of foreign body, never supposed to enter and thus never to exit, but someone switched the cards and so you had to wipe it off from the table with your very bare and naked hands, your delicate and thin yet somehow long fingers, obviously created for playing music, for touching white and black  keys of piano of all the shades, as many pianos as you can throughout your life. 

I would have done the same, I guess, were you resembling me everything that I had just lost in this very short amount of time, then again, these things are not supposed to be possessed, they simply are and we get to touch them with the skin on our shoulders.

Were you resembling me that everything that you ain't feeling like ever able to touch again, above everything else, I would have suggested we part our ways, but as you were the key of our relationship, so it had to be your hand. 

And yet it bothers me: I am so many things, above the vocalist of a band or the friend of certain people. I am a book reader. I am a wife. I am a scout and I teach children. I am that person who makes very custom tea, that person who above everything else, adores coffee, adores it like you do - that's what I got to know about you at least,

And you've only seen that one thing. And it breaks my heart in ways. It breaks me who never got to know you. It breaks me who never will.

and I miss you so.