For months now, I’ve been practicing speeches while pacing outside the door of the artists’ loft I built for you inside my head. There’s no one specific speech. They tend to wander a lot. And it occurs to me, the ridiculousness of this.
I built a loft with a rooftop garden in my head for you so that I could talk with you without bothering you in the real world. And all these years later, I still pace in the hall outside your door, not calling, not writing … not wanting to bother the boy you were or the man you’ve become.
Be well, my friend.