Artsy people.

They scream at you in riddle.
They lament in a sonnet, or worry through a short story, or vent in metaphor. They yell at you, blame you, beat you down.

Or they mourn your loss. They pine silently for you, and it's all recorded down some how, but never straight-forward enough for you to call them on it.
They write songs about a person that may or may not be you, who did something that may or may not have been what you did.
They white-out your name from an abandoned name-tag in order to write something else in its place. But you'll never know if the name tag is yours. You can't get close enough to examine it.
They get the title all ready, and they want to crazy-glue it to your shirt, but they can't tie you down. If they could, they wouldn't need the crazy-glue.
They drop you subtle hints and hope that you pick them up. They leave the message in a place where you can find it if you really look.
If you take the interest. Which is what they're hoping for.

Have you ever had someone send you a message in this way?
I have.
But I can't really complain.
Because I do it all the time.

In fact, I'm doing it now.
And chances are, I could even be talking about you.

RelentedNess