Every weekend is the same. I get up, find my smile, and then lose it before I can get my teeth brushed. It’s been work being without you. Can’t say I miss you exactly; in fact, you’ve changed so much I no longer remember what being with you was like. Rather, it’s that I miss me.
You stole me when you left, like I was some old record collection you took out of spite. I tricked you though. I had pieces of me stashed with friends – songs you never knew about. Figure if you had them, you’d have stomped on them and left the fragments to choke my loved ones’ cats. I like those cats.
So, after you left, I secreted the bits of me: a warped 45-single of a story that I managed to re-record as an LP, a collection of bad verses with no music, and an album full of memorized hits from before you met me. It’s cool that we musicians can still get laid, so there was that, but the kind of music I play makes you bleed when you strum the strings. Mostly, I avoided women and stuck with the music. It was hard work, but I managed to piece together enough new records that when I hold them up in front of the mirror, you can barely see the cracks and scotch tape.
I deserve a Grammy, hell, a Nobel Prize in getting over you. The first year was shit, and the next better, but still shit. The past year has been the easiest. I reach inside to find the parts of you that you left in your westward-bound haste. I’d tried to be as careful with them as I could, as I knew there wasn’t much of you left, and you’d need these back one day. I am sad to report; however, that the bits of you left in my heart faded and crumbled to dust. You no longer live here anymore.
So, may God bless and keep you well. But I, my dear, am out of you. You can keep the me you stole. I don’t need it back. Turns out it wasn’t really mine to begin with. Besides, I like me with cracks and tape. Life’s never been pretty, and broken music always makes a better song.