Oh dear my love. Be cradled in the wind, be polished by the sun. All things come to this.
And this has come to me. The world is not unfolding. It's folding, closing in on itself, each new year a new petal, wrapping closer; another layer of secrecy around the world.
And now you are wrapped in the first fold. The first petal has closed over you, and shut you off from me, and I must walk, disconsolate, on the world's outside, and watch the years layering over you, hiding you deeper and deeper, drawing you into the elaborate volutions of that unknown core. Already you are changing shape, curving and twisting. Already what you hold of me (the best part of me) is shifting, as you are wrinkled and puckered, kneaded and turned. What you hold of me is marbling in you, now; like the coils of cream slowly spinning, and losing themselves, in a cup of coffee.
And of course this grief is selfish grief, and I am mourning not you, so much as me. You have taken so much with you. What use is what is left? How should I try to make a whole person out of these limp shreds of habit and predilection?
Enough. Gently now. I once said you could have all of me -- will I renege? Now, of all times? No. No. The offer stands.