We used to have so much fun, you know. Sleeping out under the stars and blanketing our shivering limbs with improv lullabies. Songs so warm that it would linger over our goosebumped legs and tickle them with heat. Looking for beach glass and writing trailing love songs using "and" instead of commas. What happened to that? Are we just too good for that now? All that's left of us are a handful of Fruitopia bottle caps and a few faded purikura pictures and those lapis-blue straw/spoon hybrids for drinking slushies. My calloused guitar-fingers are a living scrapbook of forgotten memories, the songs we used to sing are the dog-eared photographs.

Are you starting to remember now? All those times we made mentos-and-diet-cola volcanoes and drank Pepto Bismal just because it was pretty? Or when we would dance in the rain just to feel like we had control over something? I can't bear to go out in the rain anymore; the raindrops and memories feel too heavy on my skin. I miss those days of endless IM conversations and laughing at our ,3 's when we meant to write a heart. If it helps, I still comma-three you. A lot.

I guess we're too mature for that now. We've replaced our beer-stained plaid shirts with sharp business suits. We've forgotten about those awkward first boy-girl party kisses and filled our brains with bills and taxes and Grey's Anatomy. We've chosen Cadillac drives over piggyback rides and business chances over moonlight-dances. It all sums up to this: we've chosen maturity over each other. But the worst things is, not knowing if we even regret it. Do you?

Maybe one day you'll look at your kindergarten yearbook and see the picture of us holding hands, flashing toothless grins and it'll all just come back to you. Maybe one day our eyes will meet each others' at a high school reunion and we'll remember all these things we used to cherish. Maybe one day you'll get a stomach ache and remember our Pepto Bismal tea-parties. Or maybe you won't. At least I hope you will.

But maybe, if I just blow the dust off of my garage-sale guitar and reopen this calloused scrapbook and smooth out the wrinkles in these dog-eared photographs, if I just climb on top of my roof and sing louder than your Bluetooth headset and your whining children, louder than the business meetings and the city-traffic, then maybe, just maybe, you'll hear me.