For one weekend, I found him, a lover with the candor of a friend. He told me things he only talked about with his father. I told him things I only talked about with my mother. It was going to be a happy ending.
Like all other times, it got in the way.
You're still there, and I'm still writing to you as though you're someone who will respond even though I'm ranting. Even though I'm raving mad.
I write that way because that's who you are. Because you will.
You feel farther away than you did a month ago, though you're three hours closer.
But it's not too late . . .
