Moving On

It doesn’t mean I’m holding on; it means I’m retracing my steps. And when I try to fit my feet back in the footprints that I left when I was with you, I can’t. Because we’re both pointing in different directions.

You are a stain I don’t want to paint over, or wash out, or ever get rid of, even when my mother offers to do it for me. I just tell her that I’ll get around to doing it eventually, but we both know I never will.