There's a song playing in my head and I can't recognize any of the words. The chords hit me somewhere in my middle and stick there. My knees feel weak every time the chorus comes along. I don't know what song it is.

I remember hearing it once, when you smiled at me, a moment forever imprinted on my mind. I remember how you mangled it and sang "Walking on Sunshine" over it, laughing. Your eyes, a strange evergreen, sparkled as you sang, and it reminded me of Christmas and it reminded me of home.

"I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby, I'm sureā€¦"

I joined you for the chorus, but your voice was many times better than mine. I sang like someone trying to sing. You sang like a rock star. And then you got out your guitar.

It was all over, really, the moment I saw the case, with stickers of your favorite punk bands (your hair was spiked and you painted your nails and you was so coolly alternative but you knew it was all a joke), the case in which your guitar sat. You pulled it out and it was blue and shiny and my fingers itched to play it. I'd never learned nor have I ever had any musical talent, but you made it look so simple as your fingers drifted lightly over the stings and hit them in just the right places to make me melt.

You played your guitar, carefully catalogued songs for me, and they were all just right-songs I loved without being overtly sappy. You played four songs and I remember every single one of those: "Just Watch the Fireworks" by Jimmy Eat World, "For the Movies" by Buckcherry, "Wait" by Seven Mary Three and "American Girl" by Tom Petty. That last one was really just my favorite, and you'd always called me your American girl, "raised on promises." You were the one who'd always had the places to run to, and I was always waiting, by your promises. That was supposed to be our song.

It didn't exactly work out, though.

That song, the one I didn't know, the one we collectively mangled, is the one that plays in my head now when I think of you. The look on your face then is something I never see now-now you're serious and attempting to be edgy. It works to everyone but me, I think. And I can tell it's almost over now, by how you yell when I call you on it.

When you played your guitar for me, you were concentrating, busy, and trying to impress me. As you belted Katrina and the Waves, you were nothing but yourself. You're not that person anymore. You might still be yourself, but you've changed, and it killed us.

In two years when I'm with someone else and you're touring the nation, I'll come to your concert and not recognize you as you play, because in my mind, you'll always be singing and smiling. You've stopped that now.

When you start right again, I'll be there, waiting patiently, because I'm your American girl and I was raised on promises. And once, you promised me that I could make you happy.

That time isn't now, but when it comes, look for me. I'll be there.