i listen to this, and i can remember so vividly the way you drove your car that day.

you let me control the radio, and i smoked a cigarette with my window down. the sky was bright and beautful, we were lost in the city, and i kept looking up at the buildings, then back over to you. i can remember the sound of your laugh, the curve of your smile; i can remember your scent, the brush of your finger tips on my hand when we stopped at the red light. we were lost, looking for a museum, and this song came on the radio.

it was the night before you moved east to your brother’s; you were taking me to see my favorite band. that night, i danced barefoot in the rain, and i gave you the first letter that i’d ever written you. i told you that i loved you, i cried because you were leaving, and you cried because you were happy to have me sitting in the rain beside you.

this song came on the radio today; i was cleaning up my room. everything came rushing back in waves, all of the happy memories and the deep love that we shared until it came crumbling down around us.

basil threw away your letters. he told me not to cry.

and i grew strong without you.

but if i ever saw you again, i would simply fall to pieces.