Finn

somewhere

well after I sold my soul

finagled my freedom

and drifted down the river;

burdened by regret as ill fitting as

the idea of what once was you and I

and as worn out as the souls (sic)

of our shoes-

as unlikely as it might seem,

I’m your man.

It matters little where the journey led to

before

this.very.second…

because the truth is

here I am

and like it or not

this is every bit the best it

could ever be,

as good as it gets.

Our past,

our history,

the way I see it

the way you tell it

the way we sell it

changes every time

I whisper your name.

Maybe that’s what love ultimately is:

a tall tale

burdened by distance

tinted in sepia overtones and

wishful thinking

and just a little bit of remorse.

In the end, it hardly seems fair that

while you authored the ending,

I’d be the narrator

when this has always been more about you than me

but I’ll speak the lines you gave me,

every last syllable

in hopes that someday

like me

you long to live the story all over again.