I’ve counted you in
for the last time.

Not out of anger.
Not because the songs were bad.
Not because the miles were too long
or the hotel carpets too ugly.

Something quieter happened.

One day I noticed
the beat I was following
was no longer the one in my chest.

You stood at the microphone
chasing the next town,
the next crowd,
the next version of yourself.

I don’t blame you.

A singer has to believe
the road continues forever.

A drummer knows better.

We spend our lives
measuring endings.

Every fill returns to one.
Every crescendo collapses.
Every encore eventually runs out of night.

So I am leaving.
No smashed cymbals.
No memoir filled with accusations.

Just a pair of sticks
laid on a snare drum
while the room is still quiet enough
to hear them land.

I hope the songs survive me.

I hope the crowds grow larger.

I hope somebody younger
plays louder and faster
and makes you smile.

As for me,
I want mornings again.

Trees.
Coffee.
A dog perhaps.