how long is a memory?

I know the pain. I still remember it, on my skin, in my bones. Like my flesh was peeling off and my insides were collapsing. You might not think so, but I do. And I ache for you, now that you feel this pain. I wish I could do something -- anything -- to take it away. I would. But I can't. Only you can. When you're ready. Clearly not yet. Nothing I do can make it better. And nothing I do can make it worse.

I understand that nothing makes sense to you. Your whole world is tainted and blurred. You see things through a cracked, distorted lens. Everything revolves around you and your pain. And again, I really, truly understand. At the same time, I can't be responsible.

Hard as it is to grasp right now, it's not all about you and your pain. It's not OK to use guilt and tears as weapons. It's not OK to be a victim to get your way. It's not OK to discount my feelings as less important. Just because you're hurting doesn't mean I can't hurt, too.

I'm a good friend. That's one thing I am absolutely sure of. You say so too, but still, you walk away, and I still don't understand why. Because I dared to not see my life through your eyes? But I'll wait. I don't know how long -- I'm a good friend, not a saint. In the mean time I have nothing to be sorry or forgiven for. No matter how you twist things to make sense in your head, to justify your words and actions, I haven't wronged you.

You say even though you can "forgive" me, you'll remember. That's OK. I'll remember, too.