Time. Truth. Hearts.

Some days you were like liquid taking the form of what I gave you. Others, I feared you and the marks that signaled of how I had helped you get there. So it wasn’t enough anymore that I knew you were there; I had to constantly be wrangling you by your wrists directing you where to get a haircut, the speed of which you masticated, where to break the lines in your poetry, and how much life to give in living. In return, you were my vicar, my shield.

Early evenings I waited for you to come home over a bottle of soda. I had found that there was thrill in routine shaken only ever so slightly and infrequently. Alas, thirty-four weeks into the year, dozens of soda six-pack holders in, you started taking quaking steps drawn-out in days. So much so that Monday we were dandy with our Chinese…

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