To Whom it May Concern

This is not a poem,
although it may be a bouquet of digital roses,
or perhaps a Shamrock Shake hand carried in a cooler.
When I said I was happy for you,
I meant it.
I still do.
I am not angry with you
and hope the same
is true for you of me.
I wish you and yours nothing but the best.
The last three years have been a time of tremendous personal (and professional with respect to writing) growth for me.
Whatever interactions we have had have been a major part of that and I am tremendously grateful for that.
A flock of Thank Yous thick as a thousand starlings isn't large enough.
But.
We appear to have differing ideas of friendship. Mine doesn't include the kinds of limitations or restrictions that yours evidently does. (My point here is not to judge you, simply to make a factual statement.) Thus we cannot, at this time, be friends. I hope you can understand this.
Going forward, I wish to sail on the calmest seas possible,
free of the drama of high waves or the thunder of sudden squalls.
Some ships pass and exchange semaphore, others sail by silently.
I will respect whatever mode of passing you prefer.
But I jumped the fence because the fact that I care about you doesn't mean that I was ever
going to be a pet unicorn and eat out of your hand every time
you walked by and sang my name.

As a purple clad cat from Minneapolis once said;
"I never meant to cause you any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain, I only wanted one time to see you laughing . . ."

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).