TOMORROW – there will be a girl who is not you. I’m taking her out to dinner with a friend, (who used to be your friend, but you ignored them until they had better sense to do the same) (but not me, never me, until I was dragging myself through glass to talk to you) and we’re going to get sushi. This new girl and I are going to have fun. She reminds me of you, but don’t think of her as a replacement. Where you were ice, she is fire and warmth. A reminder of what we had that was good, without the (thorns) problems that came later on. But, through the smiles and laughter and gorging on (happiness) raw fish, you’re still going to show up. The uninvited (ghost) guest.
You will be sitting with us. In the car. At our table. Walking behind us in the cool, crisp evening. You will be in all the spaces (cracks) in between. You Will Be Stealing (gleefully) My Air.
(Only if I let you, though) I will deal with you, however. You are there by my (grace) permission only. Not to scorn me, but so that I can show you. Everything that could have been. (I saw your light) (Why didn’t you see mine?) You are not the epitaph on my life. You are not where my love goes to die. I will move on. (And carry you gently with me)