MY own shadow stretches out before me, legs long and fearless. I have lit a cigarette, and take three drags before I pull off my glove, unwilling even for the cold, to ruin the leather. I miss you, and I'm listening to music that makes me miss you. I've talked about you tonight, in a way that I often talk about you: as something tangible and real. Even though I am going home to a cold and empty bed, and you are very far away. My heel strikes against an uneven stone - or likely strikes against nothing at all, my irregular clumsiness pulling through the mists of this cold London night - and the drag of it makes me pause in my confidence that we are something. Most likely we are nothing. Most likely we are not. Whatever the likeliness, we are not anything right now. But these songs that I choose to listen to say something else, and I miss you.

I've laughed tonight. I've flicked my head, and pulled my hair off my face, twisting and twirling it in rhythm with the conversation around me. I've handed out my number like it's a business card, knowing full well I don't want to hear from anyone.
I had at least seven good thoughts, in this walk home from the tube. Even the cold couldn't touch me. But now I'm inside, and this sounds like a letter I would never send, even though I itch to press publish. Which I will, because I'm daring myself to.

Maybe you are this: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/the-one-person-you-never-really-get-over/