Six Months

The silence was suffocating.  For a while, at least, until I realized that there was never silence at all. It was just a different voice to which I was listening. It wasn’t yours anymore.

I was standing with you in Wal-Mart when I knew it wouldn’t work. It was a feeling in my stomach. It was like trying to write a rhyme, but using the same word in each line. It just doesn’t work.

I hope you bought a leather jacket to ride your Harley in the colder weather. I hope you got more tattoos and still drink beer and eat bar tacos. (And I hope you found a drummer and are still going to church.) Most of all, I hope you still are writing and playing music because you are so much more than fixing lawn mowers.

When it ended, my vision was limited; I thought I had two choices: I could live a life of regret or I could do everything I could to forget.

But I found a way out. I found water in my drought.

The best part of life is that now I am living—breathing in deeply and always forgiving.

No matter what was said, you are still you and I am still me. I was sad about it once, but now I see that is just how it was always meant to be.

I landed on two feet. I may not be the best I’ve ever been, but I am a whole lot better than ever before. Thank you for a great summer. Thank you for drive-in movies and thank you for Manchester Orchestra and thank you for pancake mix. But it’s winter now, and I’ve moved forward.

I am still rooting for you.


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