You’re calling me on a Tuesday and I let it go to voicemail.
I’m sorry, see, it’s not from lack of wanting to talk to you
– to hear your voice once again.
But I know where this conversation goes,
the ticking clock in your mouth gets louder by
my Love, we are stuck somewhere in the belly of the beast pretending this game we play of back and forth
is how we escape.
The circus tent we’ve been calling a relationship has always had a deadline. Someone is going to pack up the show. Someone is going to move to the next city, set up shop anywhere but here.
We love each other like teenagers. And everyone calls that so romantic, says passion like ours is nostalgic. We are Prom Night and everyone sighs.
But Prom Night ends. Prom Night is a one-night spectacle. Prom Night doesn’t become Prom Happily Ever After.
White knuckles like ours aren’t a good sign, Love. We’re grasping at something so hard, it’s no wonder our fingers are slipping.
I love you. I do,
but letting go is the kindest thing to do for us,
We know how this chapter closes. Let’s do it with some grace. Let’s walk away with our backs still in place.