Even if you don’t love me I’m happy thinking of you
And even if you never love me I can’t help but love the thought of you
Deleting old pictures is harder than throwing everything away. It’s like physically going into your head and purging, plucking the tender nerves and strumming them before you rip it out at the base. Liberating, in a sense but there will always be a place your fingers fit perfectly. You can restring everything and it’ll play alright, but the tune will turn on you. High and lonesome like a fiddle on a moonlit plank porch, back in the trees. Back where the loneliness was harmonized by catbirds and whippoorwills.
Drink whiskey with me and talk about life until the sun comes up.