simply put, we grew apart. gone are the shared experiences, the friends, the common threads of existence that we used to be able to draw from, grow from, that nourished us as individuals and as lovers.
we were young, and angst was fruit of youth itself, the constant push-pull of attraction and despair and longing all wrapped up in the need to belong… our relationship constantly knocked off-kilter by an ambivalence about freedom and commitment and the latter’s concomitant responsibilities. bittersweet was the tasting, but taste we did.
there is neither need nor use for drama now, yet in our quest to reconnect we keep taking that bridge by which we seemed to make our way to each other in the past, and that’s where the error lies… it’s what used to work after all. key phrase, “used to”.
although there are other bridges, we are loathe to try them; it’s the old one that’s still the most familiar… it rocks, it creaks, it dips, but we knew its quirks and even thrived by them. like an easy chair, it was cozy, comfortable, safe…. and yet our changed selves now perceive otherwise, and what used to be cozy, comfortable, safe, now sparks a rebellion of thought: wait a minute, you don’t know who i am.
and we groan at the effort of reintroducing ourselves. i, for one, no longer have the luxury of time to play mind games and work my way through the maze of emotion that in years past was the experience that bound us — the figuring each other out, sensing direction, judging speed, running, falling, finding, losing, finding our way again. it was exhilarating and fun and everything a teen adventure needed to be, but in adulthood these same things make a friendship merely unsustainable.
and so those other bridges lie in wait… but whether another step is taken remains to be seen, because i am quite comfortable being on this side of the mountain as you seem to be on yours. and risk does not call with quite so sweet a voice as it used to. though from here the view can be, in some respects, exquisite, it is often best seen through the lens of a camera, or in the pages of a coffee table book. most days, crossing that bridge — any bridge — is no longer my cup of tea.
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