Tell me you’ll forgive me. Tell me you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering where I am. Tell me you won’t even miss me. That the best I could do was good enough. 

Tell me that I made the right choice. That you’re happy and you’re loved and you want for nothing. Tell me I can forgive myself. Tell me that I shouldn’t spend the rest of my life wondering where you are.

I’ve been so sure, I’ve been so brave. But how can someone be certain of anything when the heart is involved? One hour. Thirty minutes. And I look to you for answers you can’t possibly give, for forgiveness I can’t possibly ask of you.

Why is every June of my life a crossroads? I asked you. And that’s when I realized that’s the road I’ve been on. A series of forks that each required their own tolls. The abolishing of doubts, apathy towards judgement, courage to change. But the image in my mind of a crossroads is a beautiful place. A wooden sign on a picket in a head-high field of sunflowers. Two pleasant paths under a cornflower sky. These are good things. Painful, impossible, unbearable good things.