There were songs that I wrote in childish infatuation. And then in epiphonious admiration. I don't remember the exact words, but I do remember your name - five pretty alphabets - scrawled across the sheets in messy handscript. I still have them saved in a plastic box far inside my closet.
I sometimes like to revisit, that time when we were young and free, and words didn't have the power to make or break me.
So I look for the locker keys, and read the drugging confessions, ones that I could make only to pages, and never to you.
Terrible grammar and understated tunes spell out your name with a raucous cacophony.
I pick up my pen and another song flows. It is then safely tucked inside a plastic box, ready to be sung the next time I miss you.
