The reality is that we don’t talk often, and if we do, it takes a long time before we can get to the marrow of any bone.
Instead I text you about taxes and I have yet to do them. You respond with that I’m in good company because you haven’t done them either.
I am on the road for weeks at a time and you have no idea where I am. Not because you don’t care, but because you don’t know how to communicate that you do.
Instead I text you that I woke up to my bus tire being flat, and you show up within nearly minutes with an air compressor and instructions on how to handle it moving forward. We make plans to do projects together, not to just spend time with one another.
I see that our last is done, but you don’t leave. You linger on the couch, ask questions about work that might carve a bit more time for us to be together.
I know you don’t want to leave.
I know you don’t want to go to your home that always feels like a house.
I know you don’t want to leave your kid that you love like the ease of the blood flowing through your veins, but reality is a knife, yours, however, a butter knife trying to carve into a tender steak.