Too often people pretend that they are happy because they feel that they have so much in comparison to the poor people of the world, but we always know that people are full of shit, and that they don’t know what true happiness is like, because you and I have seen it together. They think about old loves to themselves, never divulging that sort of information to even their “besties” because people say these sorts of thoughts are some kind of taboo or the other. They wonder what these old loves are up to and think of all the good times that they had with them and then the thoughts dissipate into the sea of chores and get lost amongst the hours that go by.
I wonder sometimes if I think of you way more than I should, but then how many times in one’s life does one come across a love as great as ours? How many people can tell the kind of story of us in NYC that we can tell and not have others looking at us like we’ve completely made every single bit and detail of it up?