This is a Letter

This is a letter.
Dear You,
It isn't a love letter.
A flowery confession would be easy
No, not flowery—but a confession, all the same
It is a recipe, I think
Two tablespoons regret
One ounce bitter
Mostly it's pathetic—
You don't know me like you used to
So maybe you can't hear/feel/see
What's going on behind all of these vowels
So, (for mostly Old Time's sake.) I'll tell you

I am
On my knees
On my stomach
My forehead to the floor
I am
Crying into the carpet
Praying into my hands
Pleading and begging too quietly for you to hear
I am
So sorry
I could write four books on the ways I am sorry
Everything is screaming it;
My skin, finger nails, eyelashes, everything but my mouth
Is screaming it,
"I am so sorry."

But what
Do I matter?
Does it matter?
Will begging do?

Dear You,
Are.
You are… a hard sentence to finish.
You used to be
My absolute everything
Picked me up, shook me off, kept me safe.
My absolute everything.
What are you now?
Not what you used to be.
Not what you could be.
Not what I wish you still were.

Dear You,
I do love you—but you know that
I am sorry—but you know that

Dear You,
Are
Everything I need.
I need you.

Dear You,
Please don't go.

I am
Sincerely yours.