Last fall, I fell — into self doubt, into “us” doubt, I fell into a worrying about our paths and the alignment of our goals. What would we do if we met now, with the current state of things? Who would we be? Would we want the same things?
It’s been seventeen months, and in that time you’ve come to own more of this city than you know. What was once comfortably claimed as “ours” abruptly became yours and yours alone. I’m constantly being reminded of our once upon a life. With each turn ’round familiar corners and with each ventured step I am stuck by your perimeter. I continually find myself wrapped up in our past.
I want more than this tense and stressful contact of “you’ve got mail”, more than anxious conversation, more than the loss of friendship. I want to be able to talk, I want to be able to relate, I want to be able to care — because I do care, I just haven’t been able/allowed to show it.
Whether by explicit design or by the terms of our circumstances, this barrier exists. We’re both surrounded, barely able to climb high enough to see over, to make contact — never quite realizing we could simply walk out and around; we could meet in the middle.
Meet me in the middle.