But the Downhill is the Best Part

Yeah, I’m thinking of you.

When maybe a little bit stays
And maybe not everything’s gone.
But the downhill is the best part.


After the last one, I wrote 77 reasons I’d be happy he’s gone.
After you, I couldn’t think of any.
Maybe it’s not because everything was perfect or because it shouldn’t have ended.
But maybe just because there is no resentment.
After everything I have no regret.
After everything you were never gone.


Thank you for being with me tonight.
Even as you sleep.
For knowing that I’m knowing that it’s okay.
There are so few girls
That know how important it is to be really loved
That know what it feels like to be prioritized
To know what it feels like to be goddamn smart
And goddamn sexy
And goddamn respected
And that shit took me by surprise.


You lit a candle
And flickered all over my life.
My hut, my dog, my family, my green finger.
And, Dearest, you never stop shining.


Remember that weekend, will you?
Remember me searching the crowd for your face
And recognizing Us in the middle of a city
And trying to figure out how we got there
And spinning the camera around like
The whole world revolved around that moment.
Because it did, Dearest.


It’s haunting and hurtful and happy at once
The cold that crept into the corners of our jackets
But we shook it off gently as we skipped over ice
And you made me laugh again and again
And knew the pieces behind my eyes
That melted when you came by
And you knew I was scared
So you built me a fort.


You forgave me.
In gentle integrity,
You helped me up
And never asked more.


We have the same home
And we have the same love
Of the same places with the same memories
And our hearts are next door neighbors.

So let us be rascals in a mind’s eye,
Squeezing onto sofas and tasting mountaintops.
Teach me stick shift and I’ll teach you piano,
And we’ll keep on writing masterpieces.

I’m me and I’m happy and I’m alright as Not Us.
But on this day, Dearest, let’s blow off the dust.

Perfect memories build perfect futures
But question marks punctuate our paths.
So reach your hand behind the headrest
And don’t forget that I’m still here.

What we share doesn’t have an anniversary.
It’s just a simple story of little you and little me.


You must be a painter
Because I was colorblind
Until you tenderly painted the words
In technicolor 
Across my nose dimple.

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