Perfect

I am terrible at many things, some of which are dangerous to my survival, some of which have scarred me in ways which now seem permanent, and the worst of those things are my inability to see that I have chosen to love people who are bad for me, who cannot quite love me back, as well as my inability to see the wisdom of getting to goodbye. I simply have never been any good at letting go.

In a perfect world you wouldn’t have left me feeling left out, abandoned and small. But I’m not perfect and you’re not perfect, cuz if you were I wouldn’t have loved you. So I’m sorry for the million awful things I did and said, and the million other things I should have said and done instead. And I’m sorry you won’t spend each minute growing old with me, I’m sorry that our life will never be the two of us on Sunday morning, waking as the light shines through, knowing in that very moment that I love you. And you love me too.

Perfect.

I just can’t let go . . .

But, we were who we were. I am who I am. The audience has gone, even the ghost light is fading, I made my choice and you made yours and I don’t fight. I let the ballads speak for themselves. I hope you’re happy with the stories you’ve told. I hope the truth you won’t tell or face never haunts you into loneliness, but, I’m afraid it’s probably already too late for that.

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