Dear You,

Dear You,

I was having a great day until you called.

I’d love to forever live in the last five minutes before I hear from you. A place where I can bask in the radiance of the sun, laugh with the people around me, move with ease, eternally. A place where bombs aren’t dropped, and life-changing moments aren’t dished out like parking tickets. A place where you aren’t constantly striving, reaching, over-stretching for something that you’ll never get. No exaggeration, this is what it’s like right before you reappear. And you WILL reappear, you’ll always call, and it’ll always be SOMETHING.

I don’t know why I’m still so bothered by it. I already know that it is what it is. So why does it hit me on a cellular level every. single. time. (?)

You asked me recently why I blame you. As if this had all happened to you, as if you had no choice, no escape, no way around it. Maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s what I don’t understand.

You’ll call again, and it’ll be something else, and I’ll be here to take care of it. That’s what I do. That’s what we do. We move through time. Survivors.

 

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