Not knowing where you ran off to, not knowing if I am near or far makes me miss you even more than the time we were at polar opposites of the globe. Its the not knowing that distracts me the most. I'm always writing scenarios of new adventures you could be on in my notebooks, illustrating them with shaking sketches on my morning commute. But it's the memories of you and I in these streets that follow me home on lonely walks from the train on the coldest of nights, when I'm the only person for miles on Fulton. I keep seeing you in the faces of strangers in passing cars, head down in a book, or laughing with a pretty girl, or falling asleep on an unknown shoulder... I'm projecting you all around this town, in the memories I'm making on my own. It's your ghost who practices French with me on the third floor of the Bauhaus museum I'm living in with the Swiss couple. We practice American words "the French way" when we speak with our friends, like "coleur, and patronage, and cinema," they seem to be an inside joke between our lips. Reminding us of the months we spent in Paris studying art, and fashion, and food, and our love for one another. Oh Daewoo, if you're listening, send me the word.
From my lips to your chamomile sips,
BLB 1544
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