I thought I saw you last night. Well, actually two nights ago. At Clifton's. For somebody I've thought of far too much in the past -- I don't even want to say how many years -- upon maybe seeing you, I immediately didn't want it to be you. Why is that? I kept looking. Kept hoping I'd see something in the face -- that might have been yours -- to reveal to me, it wasn't yours. I don't think it was you. What if it was you? Then I guess you didn't want it to be me either. You were close enough to see me. It's odd how that hurts in one direction, but feels justified in the other. I romanticized many times about seeing you across a bar, and smiling. Last night I saw you across a bar, and just didn't want it to be you. So where does that leave you in my mind? How can I still feel you but not want to see you? How can I hold onto something I don't want? And, then, at some point, I lost where you may, or may not, have been. And my attention turned to other people. And the rest of my night happened. It was a good night. I almost got lucky. And you became a passing thought. Something I've wanted you to be for awhile now. I still feel you, though not as much. And maybe it's not you that I feel. Maybe it's just a time and place in my life that I've labelled as "you," in order to keep it. It was a turning point in my life. A gradual realization that I was terrified of about most everything. And slowly, I began to let go of that fear. I want desperately for you to know that you started that. You were the crack in the windshield -- the one that kept growing -- until the whole thing came down -- and I finally breathed, for the first time, with hope. But I think that's too much to lay onto somebody I only knew for a couple weeks. I don't know. Maybe I'll see you in the future -- across some room -- and we'll smile. But maybe we won't. Maybe last night was it. Am I okay with that? I think I'm okay with that. Which makes me sad. But you can't always know what you meant to other people, and just how much. Cheers, Darling. Mother of Pearl.