Decades from now, I wonder if someone will be asking me:
“What was she like, this dream girl of yours from so long ago that wouldn’t be tied down? Will you ever love me the way you so obviously loved her? If I left today, would you still think about me decades later? What would you do if she knocked on our door right now, after all these years, and wanted you back?”
And I will say:
“You don’t want the answers to any of those questions. Don’t ask them ever again.“
And then I’ll grab a flask and a cigarette and go walking in the rain, alone.
Faith and denial both come in a bottle marked “Future”
I wonder which it is I’m drinking right now.