don’t forget that there are voices on the outside of your head, too, and they sound like futures
and carrying the love that you told me about through the front door of your first home together, and
hopes, and
camping with your friends making you eat the worm at the bottom of some mezcal bottle that you didn’t care for, and
dreams, and
hiking the Blue Trail through coastal towns in Northern Italy and stopping for bread and wine that costs less than water, and
music, and
tucking your daughter into bed at night the first time she moves out of your room and into her big girl bed, and
love, and parking tickets, and love, and replacing light bulbs in the bathroom, and love, and the promotion you’ve been working toward, and love, and
being let go, and love, and
holding your friends close when they’re breaking into pieces, and love, and friends holding you close when you’re breaking into pieces, and
love, and atrocious cups of coffee and everything that we have to tell one another about where we came from and where we want to go, and
love, and all of the help needed to get there, and
love, and being loved, and love, and love, and love, and love, and
love.