We were all waiting for you. Missed calls. Lost words that soaked through me so deeply I felt like drowning. Harsh tongues. Now, you’re shit talking to strangers who hold knives like lockets- tell them your secrets if you dare. They’ll cross their fingers every time they promise to keep quiet. Do you still hate Sundays? Do you still avoid driving down Tilby Road? I heard someone crashed their car through the guardrail last summer and prayed it wasn’t you. But then I remember how profound your absence already felt. It’s almost like you never lived here. It’s almost like you once cared. It’s almost like you actually tried. I still hate Sundays, too. But probably not as much as you. Yesterday, Tom and I drove up to the old elementary school they tore down. We stood over the wreckage and kicked the dust. Clouds piled around us as the sun and dirt met in harmony. He said you’re nothing but a traitor. I told him that you simply got in your own way. But I think in every lifetime we’d still smile as strangers. Bloom in nearby gardens. Laugh at the same jokes without knowing who told them. Maybe you’d show up in a different scene. Follow some sort of truth that kept your battle at bay. I really hope you don’t decide to go back to where it once started, because we won’t be waiting for you this time. -AMT ©️