Hi.
So,
it's
like 1240 in the morning right now.
I'm sitting in my living room in the dark,
thinking about,
I guess, what I could leave as a voicemail.
I wrote
this
some time ago, I guess.
Oh, this is so wild.
Okay, anyways.
Where are your lips now?
Mine are cold and chapped.
The only thing I have left at the end of the day is my memory of you.
The
leather couch and your warm body,
the car rides in your lap,
the bed,
and you.
Are these real or are they fabricated memories?
Convincing you to go out,
talking about school,
cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I can't remember enough.
Four years, we almost talked
daily.
1,460.
35,040.
I hope you're happy.
I hope you made the right decision.
I hope
you found what you were looking for.
I hope the hole that I filled is gone,
because you and I were fire and dew.
I saw you in a crowded room,
a smart-dressed man,
comp sci and math.
You caught my eye.
Office mates,
you know,
co-workers,
maybe.