And then she just kept Yammering

I feel like all we ever do is talk. I mean really when was the last time I sat down and wrote to you and you read the words I said and felt something indescribable form in the pit of your stomach or the crown of your head that was a stronger indication of how you really felt or what I really said?

Do you even remember? Do you remember that poem I wrote you in June of '97 when the rain wouldn't stop and the sun wouldn't come and no one knew anything but sadness?

Or that sonnet I sent you Christmass of 2002 about what I most loved in all the world. As I recall, that made you sigh and lift your handkercheif and dab your eyes and say, "My wasn't that lovely."

And those long drabbling prose pieces that you secretly despised but openly praised me for, can you recollect ever having anything in your heart for them, good or bad?

Of course you can't, because it has been such a very long time.