I could tell by the way he carried that thing that his heart was torn between me and it. He was with it everyday.

Almost Every night.

I wonder who would he choose. What would he choose. If he had to.

Sometimes I’m grateful it’s not another person.

Other times I wish I had a thing I was devoted to

as much as he.

At least I don’t think I have a thing, but he says I do:

Your Cannon, your camera

I say:

You dress up for your thing

He says:

You do too!

I say:

you carry it almost everywhere.

He says:

You do too!

I tell him

sometimes I can’t stand it.

He say’s

Sometimes I can’t stand it too.

The other night, he was late to a function. My function to be exact. Really late.

All my friends and family were already present.

He and his thing went out. They had a jig. He was jamming.

When he came to my function, he was late but light hearted.

At least he was light. Free. Fun.

He looked good.

He had a tux on.

I bet.

I think.

Sometimes-

I know he dresses  for his thing.

This makes me a little jealous.

I was jealous.

He walked in with the thing on his back.

Looking Cool.

Almost with a Miles Davis swag-

but not quite because he swag, is his swag.

He sat beside me.

Well, this was after I happily helped him take his thing off his back and put it on the floor. Now he was free.

The function continued.

Even though his thing was on the floor,

his fingers were constantly moving.

His pen

His staff paper

were always ready.

I was going to reach out to hold his hand but I didn’t.

I kinda enjoyed seeing his rhythm.

I wanted to tell him

you never wore a tux for me

but I could tell that he was happily torn

I wanted to tell him that I loved the shirt and the tye

but I could tell that he was happily torn

And honestly, I didn’t mind

So, I just picked up my canon and snapped

A shot of him being happily torn.

To which he asked me to put the camera down

He said

I like seeing you free. And not- Torn.

Free.

Liberated.

Light.

And with that, he held my hand.