How there's three of me. How I sat on the back porch with her and listened to Paul Simon and Arlo Guthrie and how I kept sitting on the back porch. With you. How sometimes I didn't give a shit when I should've bowed at an altar.
How I didn't know you when I could've.
How we have a language how we have a language how we have a language.
How will we keep it?
How when you were disappointed you weren't quiet about it. How you remembered my rationalization when I didn't. How everything costs more now.
How I hold back until you're old enough. How other people's idea of "old enough" doesn't matter to me, never did.
How old enough and right and normal all got laughed out the window that night, when I made the pact with you -- that you'd get the attention I never wanted. That you'd — oh god I will miss you like light and thunder and skies and everything because you are.
How time is the most fucked, and no one's as funny as you and no one tries like you and.
And you'll call. You wouldn't not call. You're better than me. Since the bassinet — since your week-old face in the bassinet. Your face when I knew you were better than me.
You'll call. You'll be back. You'll never be all the way gone.
Ok ok ok.