You said: I’ve drawn a line in the sand, and made a sweeping gesture with your arm.
The flick of your wrist, elegant, like a dancer’s. The grace of that movement fooling me for an instant, until I realised what you meant was, here is the point beyond which you may not cross.
And I could feel myself split in two. Dividing and dividing, again, and again. Lining up versions of myself, an army sent to defeat you.
Or perhaps appease you.
I drew a line of my own, but did not tell you. It followed the contours and undulations of your steadfast delineation. Rising and falling in parallel. Stretching forward to the horizon, to a point where the world falls beyond reach.
You said: This is the path laid down for me. The path I must follow.
The glint in your eye, the tight resolution of your lips, causing me to nod my head in agreement.
Until I realised what you meant was: I have lost control. Let fate decide.
And I could feel myself rise up to meet the road, setting my feet down to walk, step by step, side by side. Counting the rhythm of our footfalls as the dip of the road sought to topple us.
I kept my eye on the horizon, watched carefully as it drew closer. Saw the darkness that was the edge, and tried to blur its sharpness.
You said: Why is it you walk beside me?
The quiver in your voice revealing more than you intended.
So that I realised, now is the time to cross the line.