It May Be The Whiskey Talking...

...but the whiskey says I miss you every day.


... Except I don't.

I think about you still, sure, but no longer longingly. I think about you in the way that you think about anyone you spent a great deal of time with, and were close to once, but no longer see: with some curiosity, and without ill wishes, but with no desire to ever see you again.

Finally, I'm there.