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I find tremendous freedom in the fact that you can only ever be who you are.

And it’s not poetry to walk on hot coals or to bleed your heart dry from so many tears cried out into an empty night.

But I had to start from scratch. And I’ve been real sour about it until about three days ago when I realized that this life is turning into something truer than I thought it could. And it’s okay. And I’m okay, too.

Maybe it’s silly, after all this time and space, but I believe that you can hear me. Because you picked me roses when I was sad. And you bled.

I’m hardly a romantic anymore. But sometimes I just want to say thanks.

I did it by myself, but not without you.