Seventy Ninth

Dear You,

This is a public letter.
I hope that doesn't bother you.
You'll probably never read it anyway.

Thank you for everything.
I know I said it, long ago, so very long ago that it's slipped your mind, or maybe you've kept the paper. Maybe you've kept it, I don't know. Maybe it's stolen away, somewhere in your room, gathering dust, or stored safely in a drawer, and you'll keep it forever. Regardless of where it is, it retains its truth, and I continue to thank you. For everything.
I meant it then.
I mean it now.

Always.