After Everything That Happened, How Could I

When I Pictured Myself, It Was Always Like Just An Outline In A Colouring Book, With The Inside Not Yet Completed.

I Wondered Which Was Harder, In The End. The Act Of Telling, Or Who You Told It To. Or Maybe If, When You Finally Got It Out, The Story Was Really All That Mattered.

All We Had Was Her Room, Her Stories, And The Quiet That Settled In As We Tried In Vain To Spread Ourselves Out And Fill The Space She'd Left Behind.

But In The Real World, You Couldnt Really Just Split A Family Down The Middle, Mom On One Side, Dad The Other, With The Child Equally Divided Between. It Was Like When You Ripped A Piece Of Paper Into Two: No Matter How You Tried, The Seams Never Fit Exactly Right Again. It Was What You Couldn't See, Those Tiniest Of Pieces, That Were Lost In The Severing, And Their Absence Kept Everything From Being Complete.

Love Is So Unpredictable. That's What Makes It So Great.