Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edge-end dull, and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul

When I ask around about you what they all say is that you’re broken down, a handsome ghost in your daddy’s borrowed clothing, drunk on his sadness and on yours. When you come around the corner and shuffle into view, it’s like tossing your winter coat onto the chair back in a warm living room. It’s like Sam Cooke and Bruce Springsteen and Tom Waits singing ballads all at once. I open my arms for you to walk into and remember that we’ve all been ghosts once, that I’ve been dead and lost and wandering too, and how sometimes I still find myself back there. How sometimes I am adrift. How sometimes when at the end of a thousand too-long nights, I rest my head on the shoulder of someone warm and present and real like you, someone familiar, and suddenly, inexplicably, impossibly, I am back.

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