We'll Be A Dream

I miss you. The Moansters. Les Sluts. Idiosyncratics. Or whatever we eventually decide to name ourselves, I don’t freaking care. I just miss you.  

I miss the preposterousness of our topics-in-bitching, the way our voices would go all low and sensual to imply a hidden meaning to the seemingly innocent contexts.

I miss linking my arms through yours and feeling never more safe and loved.

I miss shaking my head at the absurdity of our ideas, but nevertheless relishing in the rush of adrenaline they give, knowing it would one day be another sugary candy in my jar of sweet memories.

I miss the magnetic pull of the camera(s) towards us. It simply adores our resplendently angelic faces, doesn’t it? The thousands of photos (no kidding) hold proof to its stalking us.

I miss the unique secret language we share, the kind developed only when a group of people spend too much time together. I mean, have you guys ever thought how we would look to outsiders when we smile eerily in unison at a particular phrase, even if it were just a statement, a dead fact?

I miss fantasizing our futures: the Pilot with sizzling hot and devastatingly beautiful air stewards and stewardesses-in-attendant, the Lawyer who death-stares down all who stands in the path of our glorious illegal joy ride, the Billboard Topping Artist with her throng of celebs, the Foul Word-Bleeping Rabbi-Turn-Accountant who whooshes away all the bills, the Marketing Executive who exploits our rendezvous and makes it splash across the glossy magazines of Hollywood, the Quantity Surveyor by day and the glamorous Kimora by night, providing the necessary lessons on how to lead a fabulous life, and the Chiropractor with her spa-quality healing hands.

I miss us.

Come back to me, please.