don’t get me wrong, juan ponce de leon.
you see, i don’t actually believe that you’ve discovered
the fountain of youth.
when i say – “my dear, you will never grow old.”
i mean it in the figurative sense.
because i’m trying to be poetic and shit.
(and btw, i’ll add “and shit” because i’m trying
to sharpen this cheddar – the cheese, that is.)
to clarify, when i say what i’ve written that i’ve said,
i don’t mean that i could look at you all night and day.
or even spend time with you endlessly,
without needing a break from time to time.
nor am i implying that there won’t be times when you bore the
h-e-double-hockey-stick (*ahem* HELL) out of me.
because who knows? you just might.
because what i am really trying to say.
what i really mean by all of this. is that
i am so completely thrilled and altogether terrified by the fact that
i will never run out of things to learn about you.
and how do i know that, you wonder?
how can i know that the moment won’t arrive someday, when
we look at each other with disappointing familiarity
and wonder – “good lord, what have we done?”
well, the way i see it:
one, we don’t spend every minute together (and thank god for that).
two, we were already many, many minutes old when we first met.
and three, there’s an infinite number of things we are still discovering about ourselves, and an infinite number of ways in which we are still changing, growing, and evolving.
now i’m no mathematician.
but when i add and subtract the relevant sums, i find that
there simply aren’t enough minutes in this feeble, finite lifetime
to cover it all.
an eternity could pass, and i could never learn all the wonderful things about you. the moments – both memorable and minuscule – that make you who you are.
but i am here now, and you are here now.
and my appetite for you is insatiable,
paling only in comparison to
the infinity of you.
so as the years roll by, we will continue to age.
but you, my dear, will never grow old.