Dear (Friend),

We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the days where we were curled up in the fetal position, orbiting each other and everyone else like wounded satellites. Too broken to fix anything, too beat to care.
We’d roll around on dirty floors, in dirty jam rooms. Nap on thread bare couches with tears resting in our eyes. We’d walk the cold streets of a city I can’t name in our shredded shoes, our big hearts resting in our throats and trying to strangle us. We’d search, aimlessly trying to figure out how to breath again. How to breath deeply and with meaning.
How to breath through the cigarette smoke and smell of dirty laundry. The dumpstered jokes and food bank treats rotting next to the compost bin. How to breath through the oppressive smell of our sweaty dreams shouted out like threats all over this city. Threats used to cover up the fact that we’re cowards as we roll another smoke, roll another bitter joke over our lips, roll another piece of paper into a ball. Another piece of paper containing a failed letter to another failed friend. Again and again, because practice makes perfect. Ball your fists, balls of paper. One better than the other to throw around, one better than the other to fail at I suppose…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the nights were we spread our arms wide and yelled out at the dark. Our thoughts falling all around us into ideas and dreams as we believed in anything we could wrap our minds around. Our hearts exploding with hopes and desires and caring.
Sometimes I miss the idea that things could be that way again, before you were broken, before you broke trust with me…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Nothing will ever be the same again, and for that I am grateful.

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Please stay strong. (I’m trying to forgive you)

ok.

63 days.
So many things can happen in two months.
I’m not sure if time actually exists, or if it’s just some abstract concept we’ve made up to try and help explain our existence.
I feel like my mantra has been “fuck everything” since the dawn of it all.
Why are feelings so real? and why do I have to feel all of them so intensely all of the time (or nothing).
I partied fucking hard this weekend. Sober. Smoke free. Nothing to hide behind but my half assed attempt at being bitter and old (but am I really either of those things?)

I keep forgetting who I am. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I can remember to write more. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I remember to try to find meaning in everything.

Maybe I should just stop talking and think about it all again before I let everyone know what I’m thinking.