I passed you again today, and I think I love you a little bit. Not in a literal way, of course. Like in the way the absence of a person leaves all these empty places in your mind, and you fill them up yourself — like so many glass pitchers, warmly and eagerly. Because I don’t know you enough to fill in the gaps; I just wish I did. In my head, you’re a traveler. Driving around in an old car you fill with instruments and bags for wherever you go to make music real. Though I don’t know what you drive. I hear you go to Chicago a lot; I read that you travel around the state a lot, too. I know too much without words, but also nothing. It’s a weird feeling having a version of someone in your head that really isn’t them at all. But yeah, you seem a traveler. Like a wayward merchant, like guys on freighters who pass Blue Waters. From place to place, drowned in bars that blend together and a sea of faces you lose yourself in. I think I could lose myself in you somehow.
This is going nowhere, it never goes anywhere. I see you come and go, and you’re always gone. So the fanciful version of you grows more still in my head. Like it’s not you, it’s not even about you anymore. It’s about me — me and my own wayward ventures close by but unable to touch, to reach out to you, or to anyone.
Just keep playing a tune and being our folksy hero. Also, smile more. It makes us melt a little. See you around.
Pent-Up Aching Rivers 