It's Just Been Raining on my Face

(transcribed)

I'm on a train to Paris with just about everything I own.

It all feels real surreal.

I feel like I'm in some kind of cheesey black and white from the late fifties.

I kissed my boyfriend goodbye on the train, and then waved from the window, smiling and holding back tears until he was out of site.

And then they came. They rained all over my face until my eyeballs hurt, and I could barely make out the words on the letter he'd tucked into my journal.

I'm usually better at goodbyes. The gravity doesn't really hit me.

I usually feel I'll see the person soon enough, and in the meantime, technology will save us.

But this time I really feel it, and the further this train takes me from the house we've been sharing, the more I dread going to sleep alone, and even worse, waking up to an alarm clock instead of his smell and his kisses.

He's been everything to me these past eight months. My bestfriend, travel buddy, party pal, boyfriend, roommate.

I even feel strange sitting on a train without him. Normally train rides involve sleeping on his lap or watching "How I Met Your Mother" on his laptop. There's no lap to sleep on, and it would breach protocol to watch the show without him.

So I'll just sit here, like some silly girl in a 1950's film, with all kinds of estrogen leaking out her eyes.

I love you, beljew.

Hurry up and get back from Barcelona so I can visit you.