Little one,
It'll be months of trudging through the desert. Your soul will call out for water, you'll howl to the moon for deliverance, and that simply will not find you.
You're going to find yourself in a place of no relief and I wish so badly that wasn't the case. I wish your heart could find rest, but you'll dip your hands into the pools of mirages and feel only sand slip between your fingers. I wish I could tell you that you'll forget your songbird. You will not. You'll be angry, and his absence will draw poetry out of you like a sieve. But you will not forget him.
Not ever. Not really.
His smile will reopen wounds you had been trying so hard to mend. Eventually, you're going to find yourself in a place of defeat. You'll convince yourself that you don't miss him, that your heart doesn't scream through the spaces between your ribs for him, and you'll think you've succeeded.
But little one, right when you believe you're there, on the edge of your desert, your heart is going to break wide open again.
Because you love him. You love him so much that your heart cannot bear it. You love him like every symphony has come to live in your chest when you think about him.
And you want him, more than anything, to be happy. Even if that happiness has nothing to do with you.
You're going to sit in your car and weep. Night after night after night. You'll weep until you're dizzy and drunk from it. You'll pray to a silent God that your songbird would return. And you'll pray, when you realize that he will not return, that he at least is loved, that he isn't lonely, and that his dreams fall into his hands like falling stars. That whoever finds his heart next is kind to it. That wherever he goes next there would be rain, because he loves the rain.
And this, little one, if the most beautiful and broken your heart will ever be.
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