You said you loved me. You said you couldn't live without me. I am not mad at you. I am mad at myself for believing you. When I said I loved you when you held me, I meant it. I needed you, but you couldn't care less. You said you loved your car and that you loved football and that you loved your band, but you rarely said, "I love you."

As soon as you found out I had cancer you were out the door. You loved me so much that all you left were a few empty drawers that were filled with your stuff and some skid marks as you roared down the driveway.

Don't think I'm gone, I have survived this long without any major problems, and I am strong. I still see you, even. Your deep blue eyes that you said you could see only me with, and now you never notice me. I notice you. I see you out with Vanessa with your arm wrapped so tightly around her, when you said only I would lie in your arms. I gave you the five years of my life before I found out I had cancer, and now all I have to show for it are the carpet stains where you threw your boots and spilled your soda. The ashes that were your things you forgot blew away long ago.

I am moving on. I have a fiancée whom I am planning to spend many happy years with. I have never been this happy now that you are out of my life.

One more thing, I hope you and Vanessa have a good doctors, because the test results that were mailed here say that you have herpes.

I'll see you,

Sharon