“Conversation died again today.  It died yesterday, and the day before that.  It died last week.  Last month.  And last year.  It died many times during the years before then, and it’ll die tomorrow again.

I wonder who noticed this time.”

I wrote this on a napkin the other day, right after I wiped my lips of my favorite coffee at a place where they’re finally starting to remember my name.  I wrote it immediately and aggressively like I was racing to beat a deadline.  Not knowing exactly what it means, or what it’ll lead to, but I can tell you it was important by the way it waterfalled from my mind to my hand to my pen to my napkin.  And I don’t keep every napkin that I scratch on.  But this one – the feeling I had when it came about.  My God, I wish I had that feeling every second of my life.

Because if I did, I’d know the right words to say to you.  When to say it and how to say it.  My words wouldn’t fumble through the garbage you are so accustomed to.  You’d believe me through every syllable that would have tread from my lips to yours ears.  You’d hear conviction in my voice, and the wrinkles in your cheeks and eyes would finally return.  I’d return this gesture back to you as natural and as right as my words.  Then, then I can believe you back, too.

It’s always easiest to say “if only,” but I won’t say that today.  Because today is not about you, and tomorrow is one more step ahead of the other.