I breathe in the Texas sky the way others inhale good weed. Inhaling slow and holding long, letting it linger in my lungs long enough to fill each lobe.
I work here on my stoop in the darkness, cuddled on my 1986 folding lounge chair, warm Goodwill blanket across my lap, braided hair that needed to be washed, yesterday.
You slip into my sight every once in awhile in times like these. When things feel like heaven, I swear I can feel your living ghost telling me the truth of things. That sometimes people leave because it's the single bravest act of love imaginable. Sometimes the thing we call abandonment is the greatest gift of all.
When everyone else is long asleep and the only company left to keep is the moon and my downstairs neighbor humming drunken Christmas carols in July, I can hear you telling me that it was never about a lack of commitment, but rather a declaration of you'll-be-better-off-without-me-kid.
With the breeze and the trees and the afghan on my knees, this is my song of forgiveness.
You knew you could never save yourself so you did the next best thing and saved me from you and I am grateful for the father-shaped-hole you left in my heart.
I've planted flowers there, and they're nocturnal.