postcards from italy.

The times we had
Oh, when the wind would blow with rain and snow
Were not all bad
We put our feet just where they had, had to go
Never to go

The shattered soul
Following close but nearly twice as slow
In my good times
There were always golden rocks to throw
at those who admit defeat too late
Those were our times, those were our times

And I will love to see that day
That day is mine
When she will marry me outside with the willow trees
And play the songs we made
They made me so
And I would love to see that day
Her day was mine


It's hard to stop connecting music and books and tv shows or the side of the bed or bananas or adding 's' to words that shouldn't have it or any other significant and insignificant thing in my life to someone I spent (almost) a year with. Not just part of that time; the whole time, there was contact of some kind, every day. Every day. And it's so hard not to have that anymore. For me.

I can't seem to grasp how it could so easy for him; even if it was his decision. It may seem the smallest bit selfish, but I'd like to know that it's not easy for him, too. Not that I want him to suffer, but I'd like to know that maybe there was some semblance of caring? I don't know.

One second I'll feel like maybe I can do this, not by choice, but because I have to, and then out of nowhere, I'm driving down the 210 and I break down. Or I'm ringing someone up and asking them their zip code and my eyes run over. Or writing a blog that's not about him that turns into one.

There were plans. Talk of plans. I thought that meant something.