I have this fantasy playing in my mind that you’ll just show up on my doorstep.
Or that I’ll meet you at the airport.
Voices tell me you’ve died, but some women that looks similar or exactly like you has your old ID as proof, and I just embrace her.
I call it a fantasy.
Because with everything I know, that’s impossible, right?
I call it a fantasy.
And yet, it calls to me.
Playing on my heartstrings and I recite its song on this blog as if I’m singing to a sold out stadium.
Someone help me.
God help me.