stories of us

september. 2018

you are playing music. and i am writing. i write this as if it’s something, because it is. it feels like all the things we were before, and the people we wanted to become, together, are finally unraveling, but only now, once we’ve decided to release each other. 

ryan adams plays. you fiddle and play, pitter patter, whatever, with your guitar. you flow in and out of our favorite songs. your voice pierces places i have forgotten about. now i remember. it resonates deep into my bones. it hurts so good that i don’t know what i would rather have. this with nostalgic pain, or before, with none of this.