Dear young person:

Well, you’re dead,
and I’m sorry
we never got a chance to talk,
though you probably
wouldn’t have cared
to speak to me, and I’m sorry
about that too. 

People seem to love you,
still,
even though you’re dead. 
Did they tell you that when you were alive?
They all say they didn’t,
or they didn’t say it enough.
I’m sorry for that,
sorrier still
if you didn’t hear it enough
and can’t hear it now. 
I suspect you can’t.

But if I think you can’t hear it,
I ask myself,
why then am I writing to you? 
Perhaps
because you’re easier to speak to
now that you’re dead. 

Perhaps because
I’ve been there:
alone and listening in vain
for the voices that say,
“I love you…” in life,

certain I will miss them in death.

I wish there were more to say
but I can’t be sure you can hear me
and I’m tired of listening to myself
attempting to convince myself

that this has a point:

so enough for now.

But if you can hear me,
if you’re hearing
“I love you” as much as you need
now that you’re

there
where we don’t know what is needed,

I wish you’d let me know.