Our windows are weird they are one way. It's too dark in my room and too bright outside. So I can see outside. You are sitting outside. Maybe you're crying. Maybe we couldn't stomach yet another conversation. I just hope you 'stomach-ed' your dinner. I sit down on my bed right in front of you. You can't see me. It almost feels like we're having a conversation. We're silent. This means it's finally a conversation we can stomach.
I haven't written in a while, so I'm sorry if my words don't rhyme. It's 2 am and I thought of you, we were perfection but I couldn't see it at that time. It was 2 am in New York that night. We were walking, on our way home. I didn't remember the way home. But I knew you did. Never had a sip in our life, but we looked very drunk. You laughed at my jokes. And I cried at yours. My feet had bruises from those god awful sandals so I was wearing your sandals. You were walking barefoot. We can't walk like that anymore. We're not in New York anymore. And I remember my way home. I don't wear sandals anymore. And I don't think I remember you anymore.