it's a quarter past two in the morning, and i don't feel okay. i'm cleaning out that purse you told me made my eyes look like the sun right before it sets, and i found a receipt from that little old pub where i spilled my ***** all over your jacket while you were on your way to an interview for a job you never showed up to. it's okay, though, because you would have gotten fired anyways after stepping outside to light a cigarette once every twenty three minutes. god, you and those **** cigarettes. remember when i first asked why you smoked? it's okay, you probably don't. in the same scratchy voice i can't get out of my ******* head, you quoted john green, "i smoke to die." that was our second of exactly thirty seven dates. remember our first? it's okay, you probably don't remember that either. we walked from the pub smelling like a weird mixture of alcohol, smoke, and failure, to the nearest subway station and rode for two hours and how ever many minutes it took me to fall in love with you. i don't exactly know where in new york city we ended up, but i sure as hell remember the taxi driver's face when i told him the address of my ****** apartment. in case you don't remember, we didn't have ***. i wish i didn't remember our last date. number thirty seven, like i mentioned earlier. if you remember anything, i hope you remember finally telling me you were in love with me. you've never had such a bold smile on your face, walking out of the seasons 52 you've always told me you'd take me to. i remember exactly the shape of your hand waving goodbye to me, but i can't seem to remember the license plate number of the car that slammed into you the same way our lips used to. i know you don't remember that part, because before the paramedics could ask you what happened, you mumbled the same question through those lips i miss so much. it's okay, though, i made the mistake of asking if you know who i am. you didn't. it's two quarters past two in the morning, and i'm not okay.