I'm sorry about causing your crippling addictions to alcohol/sex/men that hurt you.
I was going through a tough time/hiking trip/existential crisis, and you shouldered some of my emotional baggage/actual baggage/masochistic tendencies. I know it's been since you left/I left/you woke up without a liver that we've talked, but I really want you to know that every day I still think about you/masturbate to you/drown bags of cats in a lake. I like to think that we can get past this/bang again/invade grenada, and I want you to know I'll do whatever it takes/your ugly best friend/calisthenics if I really have to.
It seems like just yesterday we were sitting on that beach/couch/camel and eating sandwiches/cheetohs/your mother. It was delicious/delicious/really delicious, and I remember the look on your face when I cleaned that bit of tuna/cheese powder/sinuous leg tissue off your cheek so clearly. I want to get us back to that place where we could cuddle all day/bang all day/spread the dark germ of chaos among gods' children, because the fact is, I really miss the way we were/the way you made me hot/my legs.
Let's give love a chance/it a try/all of our possessions to Haitian refugees and live like Gandhi. You'll always be my darling/best sex ever/aunt.