As I sit and watch the rain dripping from the window latch, flipping through the pages of my old diary, I find pieces of you every now and then like a giant jigsaw puzzle thrown around my house. I carefully take each one of them and try joining them in my mind to make out of it a torn picture of you. I wish the memory was a little more clear and not half replaced with fragments of words like, 'damn, you loser.' or 'fuck off whore.' I try not to smile while I look at the rugged and torn rail tickets from the time I came to see you home. There is a little note you wrote to me, I've saved it like a mother would save it's unborn baby. I scribble the thoughts in my mind, the half empty canvas with crayons pink and blue. I feel this strange pain in my tummy which is exactly opposite of what the butterflies made me feel. Here's what you do when you are hurt: You run away, faster and as far as possible from what's making it hard. I'm almost there, I found a picture from the past; oh wait, 'that isn't you.'