That August has already passed, but in it, you'd barely talk to me.
At least that's what it felt like. You, off on some sort of adventure here or there, too busy to let me know of your existence,
and me, the fool, doing the same thing that I used to do. Writing a song for another person's birthday.
In this time, I stay up for hours trying to write a song that you would like. A pity that I really didn't even know all that much about you.
Regardless, I eventually finish it. I convert it to an mp3 file. I save it onto my phone so that I can send it to you.
I'll be out of town on your birthday, so it doesn't matter what you ask me to do, but you don't ask me to do anything anyways.
I pretend it doesn't hurt that you didn't want to see me at all.
Regardless, I send you your gift, along with a little note. Perhaps it's just my own selfishness, or something like that, but this isn't what I wanted.