Somedays are good.
Somedays I can judge the distance and the length of the bike ride home by the time it takes to listen to one of my favorite songs.
So Come Back I am Waiting, and then there are only three more minutes to go.
Somedays there are cool winds, long grass, and the rhythm of hooves reaching out for the earth like it couldn't come up to us too soon. Like it can't catch us, but we're not afraid to hit against it in splintered moments, in hoofbeats.
Somedays I'd love to forget about the fact your actions have affected me.
Somedays I love only to see my mother smile, or greet me when I come home, free of any conversation, of any reality.
But rash decisions are met with rash responses. And although omniscient letters make me believe that someday maybe it will be good, I can't match the words to the writer.
The day that I finally do write back, when I'm prepared to hit the ground without hoof, and on hand, I need a promise that someone familiar might actually be there.
That it won't always feel forced, and that somedays , although it won't always be good,
nothing has to be pretend.
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