You.

I address my letters to You.

You are sometimes one person or another, sometimes an idea, a shadow, a hope. Sometimes You are real. The best and worst thing about addressing my letters to You is that you don’t ever respond. Sometimes all I want is to hear Your goddamn voice.

You are replaced. Monthly, weekly, daily. But no matter what I always want to tell You the same thing. Sometimes I write what I would have said. If we still spoke or if You existed or if I had thought fast enough to respond. Sometimes it’s the things I will tell You or the things I can’t or won’t.

You’re usually a man. Did You know that?

And its always my heart. Isn’t that a shame?

I write You to hide You from the pages, so they won’t ever know who You are. I write You so that if I read this again years from now I might not know which You You are. You all look the same on the page.