I sit next to you holding your hand, wishing we shared the same blood or colour of our skin or our first impressions. I wonder how you think what you think when you actually think it, hoping you will share that thought with me like you'd share it with yourself. Our miles apart worlds and my natural aloofness encourage me to stay contained but your stories have mystery and magic. The air we breathe is always full of thoughts and things to say. I am accustomed to wearing flowers in my hair and secrets in my eyes and not speaking to anyone. Things can change in one day, however. I have come to accept that. As I disrupt your fatigue-manifested yawn, I imagine how you might have been as a child. As I hear about your innate reflexes and adventures where you drove with nonchalant abandon, I show casual disregard all the while imagining you climbing the Kilimanjaro and skiing down steep slopes. You have no careless words in you and have the most favourable disposition that I've seen in a while. With me, you strike a chord when you talk about the characters in your life gaudily pranking you, some ludicrously acting against you. Love for family is a phrase that everyone uses with blithe unconcern. But not you. Your otherwise emotionless objectivity diminishes as you describe your love for your sister and devotion for your mother. It makes me want to change my discourse. The discourse where my heart had decided to remain upstage with strangers, skilfully pronouncing judgment and labelling them unfit in my life. 

You sound gracefully senesce in your aspirations and desires and yet you have youthful unfledged sparrow like flair when you narrate stories of your childhood and friends that lack worldliness. I miss that when I don't see you or hear you. I fear that I will forget your bearded and unmoved-by-feeling face. But my greatest fear is that you will stop loving me, though I know what I really should dread is that I will stop loving you, after you're gone.