Sometimes you catch me by surprise. Like when I climbed into the camper van we drove to the beach that day, and you were there. And it was then. And we were crying together. Then too, like now. Holding onto the precious few moments we had left, then. And now, the ones we’ve lost, stretching on from that dark October until forever.
Time is heavy when there’s not much left. When you know the end of the story before it happens. When you know it’s not a choose your own adventure anymore. And you want to throw the book into the fire. Derail the train before it crashes into the side of the mountain at the end of the tracks. Because then at least you’d be the one to decide. Deciding when to suffer and how. Instead of hurling toward that resolute stone wall at ever increasing speeds.
Sitting here now, alone, so many months later, it feels the same. Mourning our future lost, then and now, the life we dreamed and would never have.
Next time I want to choose my own fucking adventure. Like it said on the front cover. We’ll drive the camper van to the beach. And it will be the first time of many, or at least that’s what we’ll believe.
When We Were the Birds 