I tour, a lot, every time a new album comes out or when management decide that we’re going to play at some festival, all over the world, Europe, Asia, the states. Plane journeys are second nature, eight hours in a tour bus a regular weekday- collapsing into bed at one and waking up at six in the morning is just routine, and when I stir it’s immediately we need to be there in an hour, then I am boarding a nine hour flight and then I’m landing halfway across the world and getting onto a tour bus again, crammed against the cushions, neglecting the vocal exercises that my coach demands that I do at least half an hour of every day. Of course, it’s not just me by myself. Touring members, security, management, stage crew- I am constantly surrounded by people that I get on well with, I can laugh with, we can drink a beer and get drunk and talk about absolute bullshit but they don’t matter.
Ryan matters, though. I miss him all over the world. He is busy doing his own thing often- writing, composing his own music, generally being incredibly talented and wonderful. While I stride across stages drenched in neon lights and delight in the thousands of purple-blue-green-lit faces that stare back at me, he is writing me love letters that I will only see when I return home, he’s writing out lyrics for me, my songwriter, my fucking genius, he’s writing me love songs. Love songs that are screamed back at me when the best ones make it to the studio. If I had it my way, they all would be.
It’s a thrilling feeling, having the words you or your husband wrote sung back to you, it never gets old, I always feel dizzy from the euphoria but it is nothing compared to the feeling I get when I see my husband waiting for me at the airport as I walk in, and I always see him before he sees me, and he’s straining to spot me and he’s smiling slightly and it’s like he’s holding it back and then we make eye contact and it turns into this spectacular grin that I mirror instantly. This one man looking at me with such adoration means more than the thousands who chant my name during every show that I perform. They don’t even come close.
And so I always weave between people, push through the crowd, a moth to a flame. We meet in the middle because he is too impatient to wait and I drop my suitcase by my feet and it’s so corny but his hands go to my waist and my arms around his neck and I kiss him, because it will have been months without contact and I don’t know how I ever bear it because in his arms is the safest and loveliest place to be in the world. He holds me and I never want to leave but I do, because I love my job and I am grateful and it is fantastic and I know Ryan loves his, too, and I know he enjoys being alone sometimes, having the house to himself- it gives him time to actually write without me, the human hurricane, distracting him every five seconds. So it’s okay. We can be apart. We don’t need eachother to survive- but my god does he make this whole goddamn existence worth it.
We are apart now. I am in a hotel room in Rome, he is in LA. I am lying on my back on the bed with my phone on speaker, and he is probably sat at his desk or something because I am on speaker and I can hear him rustling things around. Idiot only writes freehand first drafts.
”I miss you,” I say, softly, as I always do- there have been a few beats of comfortable silence and I’m staring at the white plastered ceiling. It’s late evening- golden hour. My hand is rested comfortably in my hair and when I close my eyes I can imagine it is Ryan’s doing. ”I’m glad there’s only a week left. Just think, a week. A week and I’m home.”
It’s hard, it’s so hard, it’s much harder than I ever thought it would be but he is worth it. Having to be away from the person you love the most for a significant period of time is a cruel joke from God. It’s intermittent long distance that leaves me aching and lonely but just makes the coming home so much sweeter. He is worth it. ”What have you done today?”
Ryan matters, though. I miss him all over the world. He is busy doing his own thing often- writing, composing his own music, generally being incredibly talented and wonderful. While I stride across stages drenched in neon lights and delight in the thousands of purple-blue-green-lit faces that stare back at me, he is writing me love letters that I will only see when I return home, he’s writing out lyrics for me, my songwriter, my fucking genius, he’s writing me love songs. Love songs that are screamed back at me when the best ones make it to the studio. If I had it my way, they all would be.
It’s a thrilling feeling, having the words you or your husband wrote sung back to you, it never gets old, I always feel dizzy from the euphoria but it is nothing compared to the feeling I get when I see my husband waiting for me at the airport as I walk in, and I always see him before he sees me, and he’s straining to spot me and he’s smiling slightly and it’s like he’s holding it back and then we make eye contact and it turns into this spectacular grin that I mirror instantly. This one man looking at me with such adoration means more than the thousands who chant my name during every show that I perform. They don’t even come close.
And so I always weave between people, push through the crowd, a moth to a flame. We meet in the middle because he is too impatient to wait and I drop my suitcase by my feet and it’s so corny but his hands go to my waist and my arms around his neck and I kiss him, because it will have been months without contact and I don’t know how I ever bear it because in his arms is the safest and loveliest place to be in the world. He holds me and I never want to leave but I do, because I love my job and I am grateful and it is fantastic and I know Ryan loves his, too, and I know he enjoys being alone sometimes, having the house to himself- it gives him time to actually write without me, the human hurricane, distracting him every five seconds. So it’s okay. We can be apart. We don’t need eachother to survive- but my god does he make this whole goddamn existence worth it.
We are apart now. I am in a hotel room in Rome, he is in LA. I am lying on my back on the bed with my phone on speaker, and he is probably sat at his desk or something because I am on speaker and I can hear him rustling things around. Idiot only writes freehand first drafts.
”I miss you,” I say, softly, as I always do- there have been a few beats of comfortable silence and I’m staring at the white plastered ceiling. It’s late evening- golden hour. My hand is rested comfortably in my hair and when I close my eyes I can imagine it is Ryan’s doing. ”I’m glad there’s only a week left. Just think, a week. A week and I’m home.”
It’s hard, it’s so hard, it’s much harder than I ever thought it would be but he is worth it. Having to be away from the person you love the most for a significant period of time is a cruel joke from God. It’s intermittent long distance that leaves me aching and lonely but just makes the coming home so much sweeter. He is worth it. ”What have you done today?”