I miss you. You were the first woman (girl; chick) I ever could call "friend" with such warmth in my heart. We have little in common but that one thing: and that one thing was the most important thing to me. I cried when I found that connection.
We drifted. I've written you secret letters, felt ignored, felt disturbingly like a jilted lover. I used to write about boys and true love. I was sixteen, eighteen, twenty. Now I'm twenty three and I've forgotten that kind of "love" and found this new one. It's deeper, more real and embarrassingly painful than that old pink goo ever was.
Where are you? You are in a throbbing metropolis, you are in a bakery, you are at a party, you are in a book. You are in a cloud of things that don't include me. It makes me sad.
I wish we were together again. I wish I was at your party.