Replacing the ringing that was there.
Perusing journals, wasting time in front of this screen.
Time I'd just be wasting in front of another.
She said to me "It's taken me six months to get over you."
I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Flattered it took so long?
Hurt that it happened so soon?
They were once girls to me, and not a whole lot more.
Now they're women.
My idol is greying.
My doctors are dying.
My co-workers are retiring.
My heroes are commenting on touchdowns instead of scoring them.
And the lady that cuts my hair is gone.
The words escape me.
What is it that I'm trying to convey?
I wonder if they know exactly how much I miss them?
How much I miss the times.
You're told to hold on.
Hang in there.
But when is it okay to let go?
I hope someone tells me.
But until that day comes,
I'll be at their shows,
finding new doctors,
trying to be patient,
and listening to how much the game has changed.
All the while complaining about my hair.