It's been a while eh? I got this idea for maybe a letter or series of letters while reading Amy Hempel, a couple of lines are quoted from some of her short stories that I thought were amazing.

All We Are; Memories.

"I forgot what I was going to say…"

"Then it must've been a lie."

Those were the last few words you uttered to me. The last time we met, around the first place we met. Rushing off with such ignorant gusto. Off to save the day maybe. What a dreamer's way to think of the world. That was the last time I saw your wine colored eyes. That time seemed like a dream from so long ago. Did it even happen? Was the world even threatened?

Of course it was, in its own picture screen type of a feel. Even now, there is unease. To tell you the truth, I don't even know why I bother. Here in some Inn, in some town, in some area, on some planet. I can't even get most of it right in my head, let alone down on paper. The things we do to each other. The things we say or don't say to each other. Endure, because we must? Or because we are too afraid of the alternative? There's always something worse waiting to happen around the corner.

Kind of like the people I saw right after the planet had been saved. People in the streets saying: "I saw meteor! It was 100 feet above Midgar ready to hit!" "Yeah I've seen it! It was so close to the city I could feel its heat" "Meteor? Oh my god it came almost so close I could touch it!"

The stories just kept going on, and on, and on. An endless procession of more exaggeration. Each time I heard someone tell about meteor, it got closer and more haring. Because nothing is ever as bad as it could be, right? A new scapegoat to make us seem more like super heroes and less like the ordinary things we are. Another way to escape.

There are so many things I want to tell you about myself, so many things I don't think you would believe. I like autumn, even though in Midgar you never get much of it. Rude once asked me why I got so goddamn giddy around those few brisk months. When much of the world was looking like it was dying. When the cold air around you signaled the end of your comfort.

"Because you don't have to worry so much about appearances."

"What does that mean?"

"It means... You should buy me another drink, and stop asking questions."

I think I was hiding in those days. Hiding from myself, hiding from friends, hiding from the ticking clock that was winding down my days. I didn't want to face what I was, are, am.But what Ireally meant isthat it seemed like in those months of fall, it was quiet. More so than any other season. Because people weren't worried about whom you were or what you did. I know, it seems like it's a cop out. How could a season change your perception on anything? Just look to the falling leaves, and stand in the brisk wind. You let your self go. You don't worry about anything other than the tangibility in front of you.

Should I tell Rude now, things I am telling you? Would it make any difference now, then from then?

I don't know it feels like I'm rambling. I am rambling, I've been rambling ever since childhood. Rambling words, rambling feet, rambling faces. If you were to ask, ask me how many of the faceless bodies I've found a warm comfort in, I couldn't tell you. Either the poison was flowing too fast that night, or I was moving to fast. It really is only a matter of inches to discovering the truth.

Up until then I was wishing it would be anything to lead me to catastrophe. Anything to get from job to job. Filling the holes (wholes) with blood and flesh. Both congealing on my shirtsleeves next to my heart. Carefree is just another word for pretending. Not to say, I didn't like my job. It was what I was good at. I lived for it. But I also died for it. To do my work you had to shut off a part of yourself. The part of myself that I always wanted you to see.

I often think of times we had shared, those bad and good and sometimes find myself asking if they ever happened. Did I stumble through all those days? Did I dream through all those nights? If it is imagination, then why does it feel so real? And then I remember it did happen. I only know it happened because at the time I took it for granted. And now, it's gone. I only know if its existence through its absence.

Was it you were lonely? Was that why you had found solace in me, even if you knew it was only a guise. Even if you thought it was only a ploy. Was it because you saw something others didn't? How easily it seemed you could look past me, but not past him. And how I couldn't get past the red in your stare, or the brown of your hair. The dignified way you carried yourself. What I saw in you I could see possibly in myself. Believe it or not I have potential. A potential that everyone has to be who he or she see themselves as, but never knowing how to get there. It reminds me of a time again when the other Turks and I were hanging at some bar after work.

"You know," I would say, nursing a beer, " You look at all these people, rushing around, focusing too much on their lives, and not on life. "Not every clock tick needs a martyr". Ya know…like stop a minute and look the fuck around."

"When did you get philosophical?" Elena would jab.

"Hey, just because I like a little partying once in a while doesn't mean that I don't read."

"Wait… You know how to read?"

"Yeah, actually. Would ya shut up already and drink!"

"What's that from anyway?"

"A poem."

"A real poem?"

"No the fake kind."

"Yeah but."

"Elena you say one more goddamn word about it and I will not hesitate to jam this rod down your throat? Okay?" I smiled to her cockily, and tipped my glass back. "Now, drink up."

What I mean to say is, I'm done wasting my life away. I should take my own advice, because you know, not every clock tick needs a martyr. But then again not every word needs a savior. What I guess I mean to say is, I wish things had turned out a bit different. Maybe we didn't have to fight each other. Maybe we didn't have to push away. Maybe the reason why I'm writing this isn't so much guilt as it is clarity. Maybe what I really mean is I want to come back. I want to see you illuminated under the glow of a million fireflies. Or safely huddled in a sweatshirt, against the backdrop of great colors and expressions. I want to see you real. Realized. I want to see you. Period.

So we write our own stories, our own books. I want to write you in mine, I want you to read me in yours. I want everything I wished I said to be told. Maybe you don't hate me, maybe I've been dragging this out so that I could seem a last ditch effort. Dirty and dragged through truth. But really, its not like that, I'm just tired of telling myself stories. I'm tired of making this out to be something its not. Because I've been telling myself that this is stupid, to make it seem more right. Nothing is ever as bad as it could be…

But when I do come back to see you, I want to see you. The real you I only caught in glimpses. The way I remember you also.Dignity and grace, determination and forgiveness, hard but soft, beautiful and strong at the same time. Because what we are all made upof is the memories of others.Memories of you and me. All we are, are in these memories.

I want to find you again, I want to discover you.The you I saw only when I was finding solace in something other than the real world. I think what I mean to say is I want to be in the real world finally. I want to kiss those red lips for real, and not just for comfort, or for lack of a better…me.

But I guess I'm starting to blur words and feelings together now. I've been writing for so long in this old room, my hand is beginning to cramp. So here's to hoping that we can separate fact from fiction. That I can separate me from me. That sleep will come easier with this laid out. That seduction was love and isn't madness. Here's to hoping for you.

Reno.

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"You, are a fool you know that?"

"Baby, I've known that for a long time."

"You were the last person I thought that anything like that would come out of. You find new ways to surprise me."

"I had been building this up, the whole time coming, yo. You know, you'd think me being the suave asshole I am, I would have played it off different. But the whole time I was thinking of things to say, words that would only seem right in these situations, but would probably seem wrong, or diluted coming from me. Lines straight from the film reel (real). But now, I can't remember any of it. I forgot what I was going to say…"

She leans for a kiss, then stares deep, and says softly,

"Then it must've been a lie."

(So thanks for reading. The first line about forgetting and the lie is from At the Gates of the Animal Kingdom by Amy Hempel. The line about clock ticks and martyrs is from a poem by John Woods and is featured in Tumble Home. As well as a few other ideas I kind of got for this story from her. So I guess that's it reviews are welcome thanks!)