We are mostly mended after all these years, he and I, old crevices filled with the gold of tears and lessons, new cracks conscientiously stuffed with the cobwebby dust of determination. I wonder sometimes at the juxtapose, the enigma, that is us. He is content to be the Sun to my Earth and Moon, the solid rock to my flowing river. To him I am a wild thing, untamed.
He infuriates me daily with his rigid black-or-white logic and I don’t pretend to understand his need for the monotonous round and round on a bejeweled pony. I smile and wave anyway, happy for him as he passes by me so handsome in his blue, content to be cradled in circular certainty. As I turn to go, I feel love and worry in his gaze. I frustrate him endlessly with my impulsive kaleidoscope of contradictions but he doesn’t pretend to understand my craving for thighs gripped tight to a bareback bronc, fingers tensed on frayed rope, breath ragged and eyes closed, impatient for the gate and eight more seconds.
I never did like to ride the carousel.