It's coming

In the mail. It's been two years. I waited for his hands to scribble out, on paper that is probably wrinkled on the end. It may be frayed. Words might be crossed out, and re-written. Chances are that mountain dew and beef jerky stain at least one corner. And people will probably scoff at it. Displayed in a frame. It will be the first item I've ever framed. But it will be the words. To my song. The song that probably saved my life. I cannot wait to hold it in my hands. Every New Day.

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