Wednesday June 27, 2018
You died seventeen months ago. I count in months because years doesn’t give the weight. I stopped counting in weeks, in days, because that felt too heavy. There probably hasn’t been a minute that I haven’t thought of you, a whole sixty seconds. No way.
Pete said that you basically killed yourself, that you wanted to die. I said I wasn’t sure about that.
I play your guitar on the front porch and sometimes the cat from across the street comes and rubs against my legs. Is it you?
I saw the light only for a slippery moment – somewhere between here and there. I saw that I’m not fit to love again, not yet, I’m not fit to wife another husband, not yet.