You begin something with a promise similar to an aspiration. A common faith bonded with mutual intentions, exploring the pertinent as well as unbecoming possibilities together with conviction. Hope. Of something that remains ambiguous. The present becomes hope for the future, and the future progressively becomes the hope.

Yet unexpectedly, a presence from the past comes into the present. An intimacy that is the bygone now returns from the departed. It is that tinge of familiarity; that lingering trace of a forgotten touch, an everlasting assurance and comfort glistening deep within the darkest of eyes. Such honesty embedded within every sentence from the sober to the cynical, uttered by a voice that captures your every attention. So complete and idyllic, it makes all the worth in the world than to be having without.

The enigma then becomes a choice. The possibility, or the propinquity. Both overlapping, as nothing is for certain. Questions then impede: faith, fidelity, and even sanity. But more importantly, is the answer that is retorted. An answer that heralds the perpetual and the explicit. One that needs no further explanation. One that gives authority for a simplistic "you make me better, you make me be good". Quite simplistically.