Although it is said to be in the moment we meet, it does not seem to matter to me so much when I look at you now. I think of you as a story that had to exist before the first line was written. Like light that's left its source long before it reached my eyes. I could not read you, I could not see you, then, but you were there all along, like a prophecy, felt without knowledge.

If this is how we met, I guess, this is how we’ll part. You’ll leave like summer, without closing the door (not implying a promise but the eventuality of return). And you’ll run from me without knowing your pace. Like the river - you'll stay the same without staying at all. While I wait, with childish naivety in what I believe to be true.

Now, it is always you, in relation to me. I to you. Subliminal, yet fundamental, you feel me like you feel gravity and I know you like I know time. It’s how we've lived and how we’ll keep on living. We part, so we can meet, we leave, so we can return. The moment it stops is the moment it starts.