'Look,' you said, slamming your palm on the table, 'you can break me ten ways to Sunday, but by next week, I’ll be whole again. I heal for a living; I hardly bruise anymore. People can touch me now and not leave a fingerprint.'
I know nothing absolutely but that we were sitting in a booth, across from one another, arms length but already months apart.
Dam. You are a King of a woman.
I’ve been looking for you.
When did you become louder than my voice?
Sometimes you look more like exit signs.
There is no evidence on my body that you actually exist, but I feel you.
You’re not the only thing that people use to make themselves feel better.
I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for.
Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
Buddy Wakefield, The Information Man