Forty five years of your life are unknown to me, but here you are, familiar. There's nothing cosmic about my love for you, it's only too particular: I love your arms and your skin and the smell of you. I love the rawness of my chin when it's been raked by your beard and the way you make me laugh, the simple things you place in the picture you paint for our future, your handwriting. These foolish things.
It is bizarre to think of the separateness of the worlds we currently inhabit, but no more bizarre than to contemplate the two of us as we endeavour to weave our lives together, here on the cusp of the new year.
“There is a story, always ahead of you. Barely existing. Only gradually do you attach yourself to it and feed it. You discover the carapace that will contain and test your character. You will find in this way the path of your life.”
― Michael Ondaatje, The Cat's Table