when songbirds stop singing

I liked you.

I confess i did.

I loved sitting under the lights with you talking about The Hunt for Red October.

I loved walking the dark streets with you, trusting your guidance and your tall, strong, dark shape alongside me. I trusted you were there and you would protect me from ghouls and monsters and drunken men.

I loved dreaming with you; dreaming of how we’d change the world and change ourselves and change lives and change systems. You had dreams, boy. Dreams bigger than the Montana sky and wider that the Red Sea.

You were happy, boy. And I was too, or so I thought.

I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden, I realized that despite the dreams, the talks and the walks, we were still strangers, you and I.

I knew your dreams but I didn’t know you.

You knew my best but you couldn’t see my worst; you didn’t know me.

So we’ve drifted. Like plywood in the vast ocean we float – further and further away. Sometimes I look out in your direction and wonder where you are now. Africa? Asia? America?

I don’t know. But you are far, far away. I still have the vast Montana sky to look at though. So I still think of you.

The shadows make me think of you too. As do the lights. And The Hunt for Red October.

Thank you, boy, for letting me hear your summer melody. You sang a song – though it wasn’t mine.

I pray you’d find another songbird to sing with you.

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