Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

In the end, we were on separate islands. I had the boat, but you kept the paddles. No matter how hard I tried, the tide would drift me out farther into sea.

At night, our phone calls were sparse. An echoed sentiment of what we used to mean to each other. “How do you do?” to “I’m fine. How about you?”

Once I left you on hold as I collected myself in another room. I painted you a portrait with my tears, though I had no watercolor. Blank canvas – visual epitaph of our relationship.

You were the chapter I never read past. The book left in rough draft. A manuscript left on a train.

To say that you were the one who got away is a misnomer. I never had you in the first place. You belonged to the air, loose leafed notebook paper dancing a sweet bellow.

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