The truth is, sometimes when I think of you, I still feel sadness. It’s not the bawl-your-eyes out kind of sad, but more of a tugging pain, or numb melancholy. The other day I chanced upon (how these things manifest themselves in the sneakiest way, I will never know) the song that I wrote for you. And it made me cry. What do they all mean now? The big words look so pitifully small and hauntingly deceitful. They only remind me of the bitter inevitability of change, and the helplessness that it entails. Will I ever be able to love the same way again? Courteous concern and careful verses written upon sympathy cards and sealed with hollow hopes, why the hell do we even bother? When these things, these mutilating little emotions are all inextricably enmeshed in my body and my mind and I cannot breathe, I go back to that place. That place where optimism is laced with bullet-proof vest and broken spirit reincarnates, and I turn into this bright-eyed nitwitted girl again. Because that’s the only way these things will work. Because we really are this foolish. And because I need you to be.