I started leaving the door open for you. I started to write and live honestly. Endless nights spent chasing another song of defeat across the ashtray forgetting my own words:
you can create art out of suffering; you should never create suffering for art.
I started waiting for you. I started to notice the decline of my moods coincided with sublime precision to your tail-lights in the distance. Half-drunk I had forgotten my own words:
suffering may be borne out of love; love should not be borne out of suffering.
I started leaving the door open for you. I started to expose each sleepless night and commonplace hangover as a symptom of a malady and not a way of life. You helped me to recall
peace arrives once the war has ended. For peace, you do not have to fight.
Written after a short-lived fling with an older woman who taught me a lot about the world.