Been hearing about you, all about your disapproval. Still I remember the way I used to move you. I wrote you a letter; I heard it just upset you. Why don’t you tell me? How can I do this better? Are you out there? Do you hear me? Can I call you? Do you still hate me? Are we talking? Are we fighting? Is it over? Are we writing? We’re getting older, but we’re acting younger. We should be smarter. It seems we’re getting dumber. I have a picture of you and me in Brooklyn. On a porch, it was raining. Hey, I remember that day. And I miss you.