your show falls on the one sunday i've had off in months. i love when irony bites me on the ass. i hate that i still get invites to your shows. i hate that you haven't taken me off the email list. as i recall, it's not a long list. there must be an 'unsubscribe' button i can click somewhere. i haven't looked. i should change my e mail address. i haven't. i know i won't be going to the show. i won't. really. i won't. but still, i can see it.
i know exactly how you'll hang your pieces. size, color, age. i know you'll wear your favorite shoes, the brown ones with green paint on the left toe. i wonder if you'll put up the drawing of the tub with the candle in the corner. we watched that candle burn all the way down to a stump. i wonder if you ever ended up painting it.
it's been far too long for me to have these thoughts. i know this. most days i only hear just a whisper of you. it'll be in the brightness of a color that you would have loved, the way the water flows under the bridge, or in the heat of a latte from our place. most days i can ignore it. but sometimes it jerks me from reality and sends me hurtling back, face first, to another place and time, when the world was ours.
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