you told me where i could find you and i scrawled it down, black sharpie on hot pink paper. in my idealism i dream that one day i will just drive until i find you. and there you'll be, at a bus stop, in a coffee shop, in your room, and when you feel me behind you you'll look up and smile and say, hi baby, what are you doing here? and i'll say, i just missed you. reading what you write makes me feel like everything is still okay, even if the words aren't meant for me.
