the maker's mark

friends don't let friends write drunk.

still

there are no footprints marking the place where she stood. there is no warmth. there are no markers. there is not a trace.

still, he carries her, like the weight of the world. he reeks of her, like scotch and smoke.

he gave her love. he gave her loyalty. she gave him daughters and doubt ... until he couldn't see himself - with her or without her.

still, he knows exactly who he wants to be ... who he is ... with me. even if he can't get there. yet.

and so, he sinks into the smell and sight and touch of me, letting himself be wooed again. feeling scars heal, bones mend; he walks the tightrope of his own happiness.

i am the music he hears; the girl who fills his eyes up and makes him want to trust again ... and still, i can't unbreak his heart.

but if i could, i swear, i would kiss him softly - no, passionately - and breathe into him liberation and certitude - so that all things would be as they should. and i would love him more than she ever could.

and i would stand still. and tall. and strong. and without fail ... in the spot where she stood.