Do you remember writing this to me? Because I'm trying to forget.

This is not to tell you anything. It is just a letter. A letter I'll send through the ether hoping that some day it will find you. So I'll write this, leave this on street corners I know you'll visit; spray paint it beneath overpasses which I'm sure, some day, you'll pass under. After you pass on.
Although you were my lover you are still my love. You are the one I left behind, the one whose face is missing in my dreams and fails to haunt my nightmares. I just wish you would appear, in some silent seconds. Gaze at me, we could share that look we used to have, we could love again. Our scars may have spread and our love may be dead but it doesn't matter anymore. My arms are dotted with reminders of our time together and your legs have the marks to prove that you were mine. This letter might even mean something to you if you remember the fire tasting the flesh of your palm and awaking from your stupor on my lap, you looked up and you said ?that was beautiful? you asked me to make you remember our last day together and I marked you like a calender: the day the boat left port. I marked you and marred you, you'll remember me I'm sure. and you'll forget my face as surely as yours will leave me some day.
This, old friend, is a letter to tell you all those things I failed to say. Those things I wished you knew, this is tell you that you were one of them. One of those people who changed me, you were the fifth person. The fifth and the most recent. The last. You made me who I am and you made me believe that the scam mattered. I never saw my son born and my sins were left unscorned by the people who should have known my mistakes and consoled me. I didn't know if he lived but you did, you knew his name and I didn't know his face. That was my son, or was she a daughter, either way I knew her name.
You knew me like the people did in ages past, you knew my soul; the one that I was supposed to bare to preachers and to priests. You knew me though, the way they didn't. There was no salvation in my future, now there isn't any salvation in my present. My presence in heaven is unwarranted and unwanted. God doesn't want me here and I don't want to be here either. This is not the afterlife I was promised, this is not my beautiful world. Not the place I wanted to spend the rest of my days, of all the days, in; this is place of clouds and happiness, not the place for me. I wanted fire, I wanted desire and what I have is prayer and post-mortem depression. I was working nine to five when I died, hoping for a little money. A little something to make our life easier. Working to make sure we had a life where that kid we wanted would be welcome.