I loved the shit out of that man. And what he taught me about everything under the sun of God – whichever one you believe – where he stood alongside some deity he prayed to countless times -that I followed suit even in, just hoping that he’d love me back the way I loved him and hoping that “God” could step down from some tower where he sits drowning in women and excess writing and re-writing his book and grant me the one thing that I’d pray for every single day of my fucking life: ‘LOVE’; the kind from all those movies I watched when I was in school, when there was almost religious fervor to the emotions and physical manifestations of ‘LOVE’. But that kind of love doesn’t live anywhere, does it? It lives buried underneath the souls of those who wish never to express it, and it burrows deep inside, insidious, painful and raw with the chaffing of hearts against hearts until they’re worn and torn and the buttons fall off and then there is nothing left. I loved the shit out of that man. And he brought me to that place where tattered fabrics of lives and loves sat just after being torn, their frayed little bits still warm from the friction created from that angry audible ripping. I loved him, And all I got was that: Ripping, ripping, ripping until there was nothing left except scraps, and I sat in them and wrote this for him, that man, that I loved the shit out of once. And remembered in gin and torn-up little pieces.

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