Pen pressed to paper as she writes the other side of what happened, the words not sung, but remembered. Faded photographic images with criss-crossed marks at the sides. Once upon a time they danced on rooftops, and once upon a time they still believed.
There is old poetry locked in strong boxes, hope chests some would call them; moth ball heavy and nearly forgotten. In the late afternoons she turns each page over in her well-worn hands, too far in the past to bring tears now, though she misses them, her tears. Now she even misses the pain of loving him.
My Love For You is Real :: Ryan Adams and the Cardinals