The Cursive G

I emptied out Max’s folder this afternoon and there it was.  The cursive g.

The Cursive G.

The one for the tattoo.

Remember?

Of course you remember.

Which one is your fave?  I’m thinking 4th row, 4th one in from either side.  I don’t think we ever decided on the perfect spot to have it etched on my body.  These are things we need to discuss.

Honestly, the paper broke me in a real way when I pulled it out.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to share this joke with you again.

What I wouldn’t give just to be able to reach you.  We don’t even have to talk about anything that’s happened.  You never have to say a word about it and I’ll never bring it up.  Use me as a diversion; a distraction.  Use me any way you need to.  I just wish you’d use me like that Bill Withers song and I wish you’d keep on ’til you used me up.  There’s not much of me left anyway.  What little bit there is, I want you to have.  I was supposed to be your shackjob, after all. 

I’ve been going to that music channel where we first met in the hopes you’ll show up there.  There’s this person that talks to me sometimes and I wonder if it’s you?  He (or she?) played some folk music last night; Neil Young, Joni Mitchell.  I found you in all the songs.  I half convinced myself it was you trying to send me a message.

Was it you?

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