When you are on Tour, nothing is entirely private. He found a letter she had written in her bag. It was dated a week before the Crazy Boy's Suicide. She had never sent it.
Dear Mr. Man,
I want you to know that everything is forgivable. I made that commitment to you, to our friendship, all those years ago.
This is probably yet another mistake, writing this letter, holding on to you, going over it all one more time in my mind. But I won't be sending it. Which may be another mistake of a different kind.
I'm well aware that you cannot offer what I require in a friendship. That we have had a series of fights and disagreements. Repeatedly. To the point where I cannot remember the good times. Well, not easily. (I do remember them, which is-of course, why I'm writing this.)
You love me. But you refuse to admit it. I love you, and I can't stop trying to prove it. We do best when neither of us is being stubborn. Those are the moments I live for.
Your face when we meet. Your open smile when you shake my hand. When push comes to shove, you always come through. I just can't keep shoving you.
As always, I'll wait for you to come to me. Even if it doesn't happen this time, which is entirely likely, I'll keep waiting.
You are right (as usual) that I have my own issues. There's been so few successes, I cannot afford to give extra kindnesses away to other people. Especially if they are not in a position to give back.
When I was a child, and there was something to terrible to contemplate, I used to imagine it inside of a steel box. Locked, wrapped in more steel mesh. Put into a trunk, tied with ropes and chains. Dumped into the ocean.
I imagine your heart. There is a lock, but also a key. A box, small but highly reflective and easy to find in a stream.
When you are ready to be found, you can come to me.
Love,
Me
These Days by Jackson Browne
Dear Mr. Man,
I want you to know that everything is forgivable. I made that commitment to you, to our friendship, all those years ago.
This is probably yet another mistake, writing this letter, holding on to you, going over it all one more time in my mind. But I won't be sending it. Which may be another mistake of a different kind.
I'm well aware that you cannot offer what I require in a friendship. That we have had a series of fights and disagreements. Repeatedly. To the point where I cannot remember the good times. Well, not easily. (I do remember them, which is-of course, why I'm writing this.)
You love me. But you refuse to admit it. I love you, and I can't stop trying to prove it. We do best when neither of us is being stubborn. Those are the moments I live for.
Your face when we meet. Your open smile when you shake my hand. When push comes to shove, you always come through. I just can't keep shoving you.
As always, I'll wait for you to come to me. Even if it doesn't happen this time, which is entirely likely, I'll keep waiting.
You are right (as usual) that I have my own issues. There's been so few successes, I cannot afford to give extra kindnesses away to other people. Especially if they are not in a position to give back.
When I was a child, and there was something to terrible to contemplate, I used to imagine it inside of a steel box. Locked, wrapped in more steel mesh. Put into a trunk, tied with ropes and chains. Dumped into the ocean.
I imagine your heart. There is a lock, but also a key. A box, small but highly reflective and easy to find in a stream.
When you are ready to be found, you can come to me.
Love,
Me
These Days by Jackson Browne
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