Remember when I was roaming the streets of London in late hours of the night and your text would pop up on my old blackberry phone?
I’d sift through all the messages and decide to reply to it later when I reached my warm room and single bed. I’d flaunt to the world how you were my best friend. I’d complain and rant in our conversations about how the world should revolve around you.
I thought we were such fun friends. Things were so exciting and easy.
I’d receive your messages when you were high on smoking God knows what. I was usually at the library during those rainy nights trying to read for an essay. The distance of our friendship didn’t cease your uninterrupted demeanour which was so intensely beautiful.
When you laughed while we were texting, I can recreate a visual image of how perfect you must have looked.
But now I don’t soak in rainy nights, instead I’m drenched in my own tears and the reality of heartbreak.