Sometimes on sporadic nights, I wake up with the your words resonating in my head. I think of those cards I would make, smiling just at the thought at the look on your face when you would recieved it. How I collected each part from a plethora of strange faces and places, and glued it all together into one card, placing it tenderly inside the thick package. How I used to keep making last minute additions and rearrangements inside the multitudes of envelopes and gift wraps that held all the tiny somethings that my Pocket money could buy, for you. All while the Courier Guy waited outside, because ofcourse I was never satisfied that it was perfect and pretty enough.
Ah young naive love :)
I woke up today with wonder, whether you realized that those tiny somethings were not just pieces of things to remember me by, they were pieces of me.
And what they meant, was that you'll always have a piece of me no matter what happens. Each piece of the handmade book, the scribbled post-its, the eldorado-names and the etchings on the balloons were another piece of myself that I gave to you.
It's too bad I didn't keep any pieces for myself.
