Disclaimer: SM owns all things Twilight.

A/N: I wrote this because lifelesslyndsey wrote a beautiful o/s called Hush Little Baby (go read it!) and it made me want to write something poetic. I have no real plans beyond this chapter, but I needed to put it on paper. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter One: Jasper's Letter

Dear Jasper,

No, scratch that… that's not right…

My dearest Jasper,

Much better…

This is my release. A cluttered commentary on life, my life. A secret love letter. For you.

Soap stained the sky orange this morning and beautiful blue bubbles led me home. Alliterations. Bah. But I lost you again. I lost you and I lose you all the time now. Everyday. And I'm driving to your old house. I'm driving and I drive and I play mixed cd's of our songs. You know… our songs. Yours. Mine. Alone.

Anyhow, I play our songs and sing along.

Bastard. You made me rhyme. You know I hate that.

Back on track, I sing our songs and I hope. I hope, I hope, I hope… But I shouldn't, should I? I shouldn't hope, or cry, or touch, or love, or care… But I do. And you felt it once.

And I can't stop it anymore than you can. Can't stop it now, couldn't stop it then.

But you belong to her. Her and not me. Never me.

Pen against paper. We drew the lines, tracing over the old and into something new. The beauty of the line, the longing that someone out there is listening… You listened once. You spoke. You are worth it. And I found you. You are worth it. I found you and you found me and when I found you, it was a dream, or dream-like, and for the briefest of moments you revealed where you hid yourself and you were so near I could touch you and so far I could never really reach you.

So, what to do? What to do, what to do?

Sleep, I guess. Dream. At least I can. This is my madness, my love; this is my whisper in the blackest night: Hope.

I'm thinking and thoughts or words or both swim like sharks at the first smell of blood.

Sharks or vampires, I suppose.

I'm thinking or dreaming and you or I or we speak without breathing and speak without speaking. The old insert-foot-in-mouth routine. Again. And we say we don't mind and slip with such simplicity back into the same old pattern of unspoken whys and unnamed what-ifs. Wake, school, lunch, school, home, sleep, wake, etc. etc.

The easy part; for you to want only this, for me to criticize it when I could, should, could easily have more. When I just might be, may be, am not your soul mate.

You're eyes remain fixed, constant, ambivalent, posing serious questions. Have you set these lines in pencil? Can they be moved? Erased?

No. Never. Of course not. It's only a dream.

You see, I know. I know more often than not the north winds blow and the dreams shatter across the four corners. Both the darkness and the gods roam, picking up the pieces... just to break them again. Understand? Even they are searching. For the lost dream, for the failed purpose. For a soul mate. Just like all the rest of us.

You don't know this, never knew this, but sometimes I take long walks on clear winter nights just to watch the stars fall. Just to watch stars fall and make wishes that won't ever come true. To watch the moon and know its' secrets.

And I've seen him or saw him once... The man on the street who dances with the moon in his heart. And I'm the only one who knows it's not a joke... I'm the only one who knows it's a journey - To be able to stand in the sunlight -just laughing. And I loved you and love you still. Who you are and who you will be, or never be, but for now, for always, I guess, the nights, these dreams and other stolen moments are mine... and I'll thrive in the shadows.

Or I'll try.

Would you let me?

No. Never. Of course not.

You belong to her now. Her and not me. Never me.

I want to tell you a story.

I had this teacher, ninth grade art back in Phoenix, and she swore she was a butterfly in her past life. Crazy, right? I thought so too... Until I met a man walking down First St. who told me he was a fucking caterpillar, just waiting to transform.


I dunno, man. Angela, you remember Angela - that skinny bitch that I used to sit next to at lunch. Anyway, Angela always said that there were no coincidences. She called herself a bystander, remember? She listened to all of us ramble, took notes with her eyes. Angela was always the poet I wished I could be.

Anyhow, transformations. Once I had this dream, no scratch that - not a dream, an epiphany, a fucking revelation or some shit like that. And you were there, transformed, because once you leave - you're never the same. And I was there and my heart wasn't broken and nothing was broken and your love remained fixed and never stumbled and the light was midnight blue and the music was something sweet because love is the winter moon and dreams make up seventy-three percent of the Earth.

I told Angela, over too much caffeine and too many cigarettes, that they (you know - them, the dreams, etc.) stopped making sense after you left. The dreams I dreamed on those midnight blue days - shit, man, they belong to the Mother Star.

Remember? The one that fell the day we were born. I mean, really born. Or reborn. And Angela smiled cause she knew this as we all do when the choices are no longer ours. And she sighed because I was once her and we knew the way the world worked. She sighed and you know what she said? She said:

I've seen this city sleep - or never sleep - and wake(?) in the cruel hours just before dawn. It's soft machinery slowly whirring, slowly starting, slowing whispering: They've forgotten the truth here.

After you left I could hear it. It's insides begging to remind us. It's guts yearning to spill over... Infect... Destroy... Start again...

Sometimes the truth is buried so deep, not even the Earth remembers the original lie. Until it's forced to scream. And even the Mother Star cries.

My point is this: It's all a transformation. Everything. Life, death, love. Well, especially love.

What was it I said?

I said the fire's burning and the city sleeps. I said we don't dream here and nobody dreams here and the walls that keep the "real you" safe - well, Angela, or someone like her breaks them down... burning without coincidence. I said, spring in Astoria, and the Earth stopped screaming and the Mother Star is reborn and something new, something almost beautiful, almost fucking beautiful, is born. I said everything happens for a reason because dreams make up seventy-three percent of the Earth.

I said something extraordinary. I said: soul mates.

I meant it. I mean it still.

Do you want to know a secret?

Last Sunday, I took a stroll down to the corner market. I took a stroll and whistled the songs with no words and big meanings and somewhere between the a flat and the d sharp the radio in my head flickered on and a chorus of new notes reminded me of every butterfly I'd ever watched die.

Not the point.

The point is this; I was walking and I looked into the soul of a man I could, should, would never love. This is cheating. I know. Discovering is part of the journey. The journey and the joke. So I tried not to look and bought cigarettes instead, inhaling profoundly whistling a song until it became only a chorus and a secret, an unrealistic wish:

I want to be a superhero so that I can save you from yourself.

I wonder and ponder and wander and ponder: How did this happen?

But then I remember how it began...

I let myself stumble, just for a moment, one moment and when i looked up, into your eyes, in an unfamiliar room nowhere near home, the fractures in the universe that had torn my soul and bled me nearly dry, had begun to mend and then i knew, understood, I had spent so much time maintaining the lie, i had forgotten the dream. It's funny how the smallest things can change the whole world, a word, a look, a touch. And suddenly as whole and wide as the world once was, it's brighter when the whispers in my ear, the words that fill my heart are yours and even that faraway look in your eye is only for me. I wish that it was.

I looked into your eyes and I know you felt what I felt and knew what I knew. I know you saw into my soul, just as I saw into yours. However briefly.

Anyway, you said something simple, so fucking simple. You are worth it. So simple, so simply spoken, so simply dismissed and later when I lied, I lied and was tricked and trapped and a thousand regrets burned my nerves so thin, I forgot to breathe and every old thought, every unanswered question, every fiery desire flooded back through my veins like wave upon wave upon wave, conquering my unprepared vessel. Later when I was burning and bleeding and you were ripping, and you were burning the one who made me burn and bleed, I remembered. And it wasn't so simple after all.

I didn't belong to you then. Yet. I do now, I did then without knowing. Even if you belonged to her. Her and not me. Never me. And always you.

And I was jealous then. So fucking jealous. Jealous of the waif-like slip of a girl with the spiky hair and invisible pixie wings that fluttered violently when she didn't get her way. Even after the burning and the bleeding stopped. I couldn't let myself belong to you, not then, because I was jealous and he said forever. He, him, the boy that was once perfect and in control said forever and I believed him and I wanted forever.

Don't we all?

So I pretended that I was his because he said love and he said forever and I fucking wanted it. Turns out I was a better liar than I thought. Because as I pretended, I believed. And because I believed, he and you and everyone believed.

But when that night came, that fucking night, and I didn't want to be there but the pixie wings fluttered and the boy who said love and forever and was perfect and in control said we'll be there. I didn't want to be there but there I was. Only I could turn a party into a death sentence.

I smiled and pretended, I was good at pretending. I smiled and accepted. I made a mistake. Not the first, not the last and not a mistake so much as an unforeseeable accident.

And it was a death sentence. Just not mine. I could and would and did live through it. It was a death sentence. The death of possibilities.

It was just one moment. A slip of paper across my skin. A drop of blood. He pushed. You lunged. Time stopped.

I forgave and understood but then he still left me and you left me and everyone left me because sharks and vampires and drops of blood. He and you and everyone left and you were gone before I ever admitted I wanted you there. And I broke without bleeding.

Whether you realize it now or not, you broke too.

At first I thought he broke me. I had good arguments for this. He had said love and he had said forever and I fucking wanted that. He lied. But it wasn't just him. He only said the words that I presumed and assumed were truth. It took nightmares and screams and Angela, who was always the poet I wished I could be and time, so much time before I knew. I knew and knowledge is power.

I'm not sure how I knew, but I knew. It wasn't unforeseeable at all. It was foreseen and it was an accident and a mistake and a push and a not-so-white lie. The lies crashed down around me just as his blood lust crashed into you that night. The lies crashed and not just the waif-girl's lies or the once perfect and in control boy's lies. But my lies too. I should have told you from the beginning, from the moment our eyes met in an unfamiliar room nowhere near home. I should have then and wish I could now. I loved you and love you still. And if you ever find this letter, you will know.

Just as I know you belong to her. Her and not me. Never me.

But at least now you'll know.

I leave this sleepy little town today. I leave to find myself and find new ways to breathe because this sleepy little town is suffocating. I leave and I don't know where you are, but I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know of the lies and mistakes and love. I don't know where you are so all I can do is leave this letter in your old study and hope that one day you'll find it and know what I know.

Because knowledge is power and love is power and I want you to have that.

You'll always have my heart.