Tomorrow

He's sitting there and he's perfect. Sure he's in an old blue t-shirt and the glasses that he hates and his hair is too short and sticking up in the back. But perfectly so.
Here I am too, playing country music. I hate country music. But for now, it goes along with this cramped storage shed of a room and the cheap space heater and the plastic bins that hold my clothes.

I'm trying hard not to let the tears slide, it makes him feel horrible I know. But tonight I can't help it, when he leaves tomorrow I will go back to black and white film, leaving the splendor of technicolor behind.

Slowly try to pull myself together. For him, but also for me.
I start with my fingers. In my head I am shouting, commanding: stop shaking! Mouth next, harder this time to turn the corners up- smile! Eyes are the most difficult, I leave them for last.
Stop misting over; stop the tears, stop. Stop. STOP.

It works, visibly at least. So tomorrow I will show up to the same old same old and life will continue.
Continue, continue.