Ten years from now I wonder where we will be. What will we be doing to **** time before time kills us? Strange to think we'll be nearly thirty, the age we spoke of in dread as the old us sat in your hallway smoking cigarette buts from your ashtray.
Remember when we spent those six weeks apart? Remember how much we had grown? Perhaps time changes us just as time heals pain, or so they say.
And why is change so taboo? We needn't feel guilty when our new selves adore one another quite the same as the old. My new inner-city slang is still besotted with your mainstream skinny jeans.
There was that day in the park when I awkwardly ignored the bride and groom that passed us by, followed by the elderly couple, and the toddler on the swings. You asked me how I pictured my future and I shrugged, considering life's unpredictability.
Now I sit by my window, gazing at the golden glow of the city, not knowing what I want for a life of my own, but fantasising of the possibility of a Christmas morning where you unwrap a guitar and spend a lifetime with musical memories, with or without me.