We drove in no real direction
on a bitter night in late January.
Me in the passenger seat,
him at the wheel.

"You can say anything to me,"
he said,
as I cried softly in my dark
corner of the car.

"I'm feeling anxious about our relationship,"
I whispered,
exhaling words that only knew the insecurities
of my idle mind.

"How so?"
he wondered,
now sounding a bit anxious himself,
pressing down heavier on the pedal.

I worry we will grow  a  p  a  r  t,
not together, as time passes,
because we won't be ready for the same things
at the same time,
and I will become impatient as I wait
for you to do your living and growing.

I shrink into my corner,
feeling too vulnerable.
More tears warm my cheeks,
as I fail to steady my trembling breath.

"I wish I met you later."
A confession I never heard before,
but in hearing now,
felt I always knew was there.

We just kept driving,
away from, and towards,
our uncomfortable truth: We are, and always will be, in different places,
at the same time.