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In honor of my truest self, I bring you a stream of my consciousness. Flawed as it is in many aspects, some would consider it rude or excessive or not nearly enough.

Well, I say, if you be one year over twenty at the least...

I miss

sneaking alcohol into concerts with you

and

feeling bad about being late for another date

I miss

your lips on mine

it might be trite

but every one is like a glass of wine

I miss

your arms, your face, your hair

even your scowl

I miss

the boiling in your blood when things get hot

the composure in your silence when things get too heavy

The look in your eye when I'm talking and the strength in your voice when you speak

I miss what we might've been

in this

sick, twisted, dream world of mine

Nothing's perfect, that's for sure

but somewhere

somehow

like they say

I know my future's making promises

No, no, no

I said that right

I miss the hopes I had for us

but that was never us

was it?