Love letter

Dear Amy,
I've had 12 friends named Amy, did you know that?
So I feel I can address you by name
and you and I will remain safe in our anonymity.
I risk you never knowing, by the same token,
though I expect that if I die, someone will tell you.
If you die first, then you'll either knew it all,
or nothing at all. But I digress,

Dear Amy,
I love you all.
You were the first I ever let in, and the first
I put up my boundaries for - brick and stone, metal and glass.
You introduced me to paradox, at once inside and perpetually,
fearfully locked out. There and not there
long before Schroedinger was ever born.

Dear Amy I learned rock climbing for you.
Learned to cling with fingerpads,
praying that the rock biting into my skin
would cling back and stop me falling.
Watch the red lines appear sharp and slow
on my white flesh - my arms and hands.

Dear Amy you showed me the meaning of mirrors.
One way glass in its truest form, as I tried
to look through my reflection to find you
but was left caressing smooth, cold, silver glass.
Dear Amy the shards still stick in my soles.

Dear Amy you are the reason my voice wavers
when I tell him I love him. And I do love him.
I waver with the memory, or perhaps my voice
tremors under the weight of words
I never said to you.

Dear Amy, I wish I could only relegate you in my mind
to the past where I could reimagine us - as better
than we were. I don't wish you were dead,
I don't wish you dead.

Dear Amy, I don't really know you now.
They tell me you are happy. I -
I am glad. Know that though I do think of you,
and this letter contains too much and not enough
truth, and I am showing you how I came to be,
I do not always think of you.

And I'm sorry I never said what I wanted to say,
or what you needed to hear, and I'm sorry
you didn't hear either. I'm sorry for the metaphors
and the poetry, and for never speaking plainly.

Dear Amy, we haven't spoken in years.
Dear Amy, the distance and the years are my fault.
Dear Amy, love Amanda.