Letters To The River

Dear John,

This morning they found you under a bridge passed out and half bled to death. You had slit your own wrist and sat, staring at the river. You were waiting to be found or to die, whichever came first. I went to the hospital but I didn't go into your room. I didn't wanted to see you. But I want to see you now. Please get better, John. I love you. You can't know that, not now. But I really wish you could. Especially now, mum and dad don't love you right. If I could, I would fly up to heaven and bitch slap your guardian angel. If I could, I would replace her and dedicated every heart beat I have to you. Not like I don't already, John. But you know what I mean. If I could, I would slit your wrists for you and hold you while you die. If that's really what you want, all you need to do is say so. I'll do anything for you, I'll even let you go. But please don't make me do that. Not yet. There's a lot I want to say to you, but John, I'm scared. You're probably better off not knowing how much I love you. But maybe someday I'll hand you this letter and run off so I don't have to say this to your face; I love you, John. More than you will ever know.