Perhaps each commencement between us begins with a predetermined end.
Time stopped rooting for us almost at the start, and you, quick to grab hold of some reason, any reason, accepted its obstruction as inevitable. Did you welcome it with relief? Your eyes always focused on me, always bore deep within my own self, piercing my naive frame. Were they merely searching for a means of escape? When the first chilled wind blew through the greened leaves outside of your second story window, rocking their fragile stalks and forcing their gentle arms up toward a blue heaven, a foreshadowed fiery sacrifice of weeks to come, you ripped away your own stem, drew yourself as far from our shared roots as you could possibly get.
The chilled winds come every year. But the greened leaves trembled and you, forgetting how they quiver each year, ripped yourself away from these roots.
You reasoned with me, pronouncing continuity as hopeless. Time, you said, was not on our side. Secretly you listed space as another enemy. You never told me, but I knew.
Time is inescapable and evades control. I stood watching as you walked away, left me behind and found, upon your arrival Elsewhere, a third reason.
The Reason was beautiful and incomparable in every way. It was close and warm and sweet and possessed an intensity both in composition and character with which I could not compete. And I, believing always that passion, instinct, the blood pulse beating within me was stronger than logic, accepted this Reason with an unwavering faith in divinity. The Reason was there and exactly what you wanted. The Reason was exactly what you needed to run away from me.
Days and months have piled together, collecting dust. A second year of reasoned distance draws closer every day and still you fling excuses upon me as if rationalization is all we need to fix these mutilated roots. Still you blame time for the distance that you view as unavoidable.
Every reason you could possibly supply you have carelessly thrown at me. Still clinging onto this small, devout belief in the worth of these emotions circulating through my veins and pouring out of me, I have accepted every reason without any outward protest.
Last night every fiber of my being ached to scream at you, to scold you for two years of excuses and two years of avoiding explanation and potentiality.
You have never even tried to challenge time, and I am stuck in the perpetual static of impossibility.