You texted me this morning and I know you didn't mean it to, but that message made my heart, and my lungs, and my stomach all sink to some new foreign place down past my intestines somewhere. Like they all slopped out on to the floor.
I was at work when I read it, and I swear I saw your face in every customer who walked through the door. I wanted to reach out and shake you like it would rattle some twisted wires back into place but all I could seem to do was count them your change.
So tonight we'll scream over airwaves two hundred miles apart, and try to make amends. You'll tell me you need your freedom and I'll try to convince you that this life we've created in the last three and a half years, has been worth more than broken down cars and spilled beer.
Like how I need you more than the houses we've made into homes, more than the three dollar tips from condescending customers so I can get a drink at the end of the night, more than lost best friends turned room mates and back again.
We'll take it slow from here try to rebuild and repair, but please tell me is a burning house worth saving after the paint has melted away and rooms become blackened by smoke, what about after the rafters fall in?