Dessa plays over and over in my loft as I try to write about anything other than you. It has after all these years become a tired cliche, the same story line written a thousand ways. How many men will I write that hold their drink the way you once did? I can lie in bed with my best friend for decades and dictate the different ways in which I don’t think about you, us, anymore. I don’t think about us anymore. But some things no matter how far or how long it has been, some things wear away at your river beds and imbed themselves in your bones making perfect creases and hallows in which they will forever hide. You to me, you for me, are like an ancient tale the mariners tell the wives they leave at home. A piece of folklore, a warning, a dirge. The memory is filled with ghosts and unseen shores. I rarely visit you anymore. Though, sometimes you appear in dreams and when this happens, we both know it is a dream, because otherwise it could never be and for once you look me in the eye. Seeing you this time, was the first time, in which I could recognize just how long ago and far away we were, just how it is that two people grow apart and become just as much projections of the future as we are projections of the past. And unlike in my dreams, the real you will never again meet my eye with any conviction or semblance of the person I once knew.