Do you describe your morning?
It's Easter and I'm sitting at a speckled Formica tabletop in a Nashville airport diner. I am early for my flight- enough time to have two bloody Marys. One more than I actually want. My waitress is sweet. Young, with plastic plumeria earrings, and she just wished me a happy Thanksgiving. Maybe she needs these drinks more than I do.
Do you talk about the life you're going back to? My tiny apartment waits for me- missing someone who isn't sure she belongs there. I fill that space and I live that life never feeling completely filled myself. I have realized slowly that you never really lose yourself, even if you're numb with happy hour and netflix. Losing yourself never applies. You allow yourself to go. Whether that is growth or degeneration is anyone's guess.
Do you write about love?
If love is needing someone and you don't think you'll need anyone, is love lost on you?
Maybe you write about your past, but God damnit, you spend enough time on your past- do you really want to spend ink as well? As if writing about it will quench the pining. As if anything will help. So you quietly acknowledge to yourself and no one else that those are skeletons and ghosts on that hill, and it's time to let go.
You could talk about the beautiful things. How Nashville was perfect as you watched one of your favorite souls marry his match. How the air felt like love and the sky was blue and the trees bloomed pink and white.
How you'll return to Denver one month before its own petals will cloak the city steam with yellow honeysuckle.
You are in love there and maybe you miss that tiny apartment and stop thinking so much, James. Just remember to look at the stars and you'll be fine.
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