I've spent the past seven years reading secrets from post cards and the last 24 trying to act like I've got a cold heart. But I'm still sleeping with the blanket I stole from my brother when I was four and was afraid he'd get mad and say he didn't like me.

And my grandfather died, he wasn't blood and we called him Tommy. His real name was George, but he loved us like family. I visited him in the hospital when they pulled the plug and I brought my guitar and sat alone on my car.

And I hadn't written anything since he passed. Not a word since October. But this is me at 2:30 am  watching old 90's tv with the lights on and writing this down and I'm thinking of where I want to be.

For the past six years I've been waiting patiently for you to call and say that you've missed me. But I've waited in vain, and now your vanity's wasted. You're a ghost of the past and your sincerity's faded.

I built a new book shelf and changed rooms and painted my new walls a shade of gray and I hung up red curtains. And it was ten years ago that we moved here to the place I would call home though, then, I wasn't so certain.

The last eleven years I've been writing to try to forget you. I've spent so much time staring blankly through windows. This is me apologizing for the past and conceding hope for the future. This is me staring out at where I am and where I want to be.