When It's Summer in the City and You're So Long Gone from the City, I Start to Miss You, Baby, Sometimes

I really miss The Only Living Boy in New York. Today, I was at such risk of emailing him that I chose to email a mutual friend of ours, bring him up, fill in the mutual friend on the details of the end of our friendship, and intimate to the friend that I miss him. I admit that it was a dubious choice to spew my crazy all over our poor, unsuspecting friend like he was a citizen of Pompeii, but I decided that it was preferable to spewing my crazy all over The Only Living Boy in New York himself.

I keep reminding myself (with the help of Miley Cyrus, that poetess, my patron saint) that I have to go forward, not backward. If I contact The Only Living Boy in New York, that is going backward because the absolute most I can hope for is that we'll go back to the way things were, and I didn't like the way things were. I want him to tell me he loves me, that he's changed his mind, that he's been missing me every day since the last time we talked, but if he wants to tell me those things, then he needs to initiate the contact. If he feels those things, then he will, but the truth is that he probably does not.

When we were still friends, he was the person I wanted to talk to about everything. Whenever anything happened, good or bad, I wanted to tell him first. His opinion mattered the most. I wanted him to be my real-life boyfriend; he wanted me to be his workplace girlfriend. That hurts. That aches. Missing him feels like dissolving from the inside out.