It's funny how rapidly my hair has grown, a black mess that once touched only my shoulders but is now slowly reaching the bottom of my rib cage, how I've moved from there to here, how the person I thought I knew like the back of my hand has started morphing into a stranger... But I still write about the same things, the same people. And perhaps these are all that I am capable of writing about. Wanting, but not having. Having, and then losing. Looking underneath my bed and finding old memories covered in dust. 

Things have changed and at the same time they haven't. 

And now I'm getting to the part where I must tell you why I'm writing: there are things that I want to say, but how do I say them? How do I type this down without being horrified and disgusted with what I write?

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I will not tell you that I still love you, or even that I miss you, because I do not know if I do and those words strung together have started sounding so trite that I've grown to dislike them, but hi, hello. How are you? There is an old, familiar song tucked in-between these lines and I'm singing it to you. I'm singing it to the hot, afternoon sun in hopes that it will reach you, in hopes that you hear my voice and that you will sing it back.