I once wrote that after you left--the way I wrote it, you would always come to your senses; you would always do the leaving--
I'll only listen to Ella Fitzgerald singing; I'm thinking of "They Can't Take That Away From Me." Maybe some Nina Simone, too...
I thought that it would be a catastrophic void in my life, that I would need rituals and promises to fill myself again.
But I've done no such thing. And sometimes the lack of dramatics on my part is what keeps it fresh and painful when I stumble into a thought or relic of you. I haven't used up all of my emotion in grand gestures...so when I step into the puddle, I'm always underestimating its depth. You still soak my socks.
xx
