When I first met you, I was perplexed.
It wasn’t that you used big words; I use big words. Too often, I’m sure.
It wasn’t that you read a lot of books; I read a lot of books. You read contemporary and experimental literature. I read classic and decadent literature. (And non-fiction. Lots of non-fiction.)
It was that your world was bigger than my tiny snow globe. Your world contained places and experiences that I could never fully comprehend, but which seemed so marvelous. How provincial I must have appeared by comparison, with my fear of flying and comically constrained geography!
What could I have possessed that made you pause for even one second in your pursuit of life’s bold resonances? (You are allowed to plead temporary insanity.)
I followed your lead. I trusted your instincts and guidance. I grew complacent.
You expanded, I atrophied. I expanded, you withdrew.
Now, when long years seem short and trust is once again eclipsed by fear, I look behind us and marvel at the happenstance.
Of a me and a you. A you and a me. That there could still be a place for either conception.
Could there still be a place for either conception?
You tell me.