Do you still have all those letters I sent you? I only ask so I can break into your house to burn them if the answer is yes.
Your number is both the easiest and hardest to call. Such is the conundrum of “just good friends.”
It’s not what we were—that was awful. It’s what we could have been that I miss.
I seem to find pieces of you in all of these notes.
I wish I could stop telling my friends, “It’s complicated.”
Make me your home, please.
I sold on Amazon the books I gave to you that you gave back to me. Turns out we were worth about $17.50.
We were in love for two of our three years together. Now I think we’re friends only to make the third mean something.
You didn’t take my breath away the last time I saw you. I kinda wish you did.
Advertising! Commerce and color. I asked myself: What Would Don Draper Do?
I thought we’d at least have enough time for you to teach me something about jazz. We didn’t even make it through 70s Philly Soul.
For the sake of your future conquests, I wish I’d told you how much work you needed to do in bed.
Who you are now would never love who I am now. And that’s okay.
We haven’t even kissed yet and I’m already composing future Dear Old Loves about you in my head.
I am so much prettier than your new girlfriend, even if I am fifty pounds heavier.