A cold beer sweating on a hot afternoon. I mean, it was hot, man. It wasn’t just hot; it was humid. We walked along the banks of the river that ran through everything, like how you used to run from me in fields of tall grass and flowers. We were so much younger back then. We were in love. I had the capacity to feel, and you had the patience to nurture and keep me surprised, wide-eyed. I slept last night with no dreams, finally, and my stomach only hurt mildly today. I’m calling that progress. Progressing toward what? Maybe happiness and health. Maybe death. I don’t know. I can’t tell you the things I thought back then, but I can tell you who I am now. I’ve changed just a bit, my darling. The old-fashioned words you loved being called—darling, dearest, lover, sweetie—I was your suitor. I’m still here, sweetheart. I’m still waiting. I will court you again, although I may run a little slower, my words may fumble and trail off into intruding thoughts. I may wake up soaked and shivering from dreams that come. I may not be the man I once was in your eyes.
