Hamartia

Seventh

My beautiful broken Phil, not that I ever deserved to call you my own in the first place,

I know what you'd say if you were still with me: you'd tell me to move on, but I still love you so I don't want to. That's what I always told myself in the rare moments I grew sensible enough to wonder if I should let you go. Maybe I should have been more persistent with myself, maybe you should have told me that yourself long ago, though you must have been as oblivious to me as I was to you. Or maybe while I was so busy convincing myself loving you was fine, you were busy telling yourself the same thing hoping I would help you if I did. I never did help you and that's my fault, but you weren't the only one damaged; I was too lost in my own stupid emotions to realise you needed it. You should have asked.

They say not to speak ill of the dead but the most painful part about that is I know you'll never really be dead to me. How can you be when your memory lives on in these letters and in my heart too? Maybe that was my intention: to keep you alive just long enough that I can still blame you for all of it, even when it's my fault. It is, whether you'd want me believing that or not. It is, no matter what else I tell myself.

In the end, I know I am what killed you and there is no way around it. We both can't deny, I was your last hope, the last person you tried to seek refuge in but you put your trust in the wrong person, Phil. I am shallow and selfish and all I ever thought about was what a cruel trick God had played, letting me love you when you'd never love me back. You didn't need my love though, you needed something more. I guess I just wasn't the right person to give it to you. God seriously fucked up if He'd placed His trust in me same as you did, because even though I'd sworn to myself to protect you from everything, a fat lot of good that actually did when I couldn't even recognise the danger staring me right in the eye.

It's ironic, really, considering the number of times I stayed up at night, night after night, crying over your ignorance of the very same thing; why couldn't you just see how much I loved you? Why couldn't you see that and love me back? But I guess when things get too close to us they get blurry and we lose focus and that was what happened to both of us. I'm ashamed to say, seeing as all I have left from my mistakes are these crumpled pieces of paper, that I think I got it a lot worse. You don't have to think about it all at least.

As guilty as I feel, I'm not sure what use there is left in saying I'm sorry. You'll never hear it and it's not making me feel much better, so in that case I think I've run out of things to say. Don't worry, I'm not going to do something stupid like throw myself in front of a moving bus hoping to join you sooner. I'm not sure we'd end up in the same place anyway, because while I get now you weren't perfect, despite it all, you sure as hell tried to be. My sins are far greater than yours. I hope Heaven is nice. I'll never know.

The times finally come that I probably need to figure out what to do next then. Learn how to live my life without you next to me in it. Endure the punishment I guess I deserve for never treating you well enough. Not to mention, I'm about to run out of room on my last sheet of paper. I hope I can squeeze it all in. So for one final time, though it is the weapon that damaged us both beyond repair, I offer the pathetic gift that is my love in the hope you can recognise what little beauty there is left in it.

My Phil,

I wish I'd loved you better,

Your Dan.