I remember growing old with you. Running out of stories to tell, as everything had already been said. Yet I never stopped you when you would start telling me about your youth, ignoring you forgetting the fact that I was there for the majourity of it. I enjoyed it. In those moments, I traveled back to the rainy summers, bonfires, parties, back when a new kiss had anticipation, the promise of something unknown, experiences and feelings felt for the first time ever. It is the concept of the unknown which feels unfamiliar to me now. Everything is known, there is no discovery left for me to feel. Excitment had been distilled to routine, expectations have been settled a long time ago.

So, as you go on again on a story I undoubtedly have heard a hundred times before while sitting in this same spot and you on your side of the sofa, I lean back in my chair. The chair where I have sat in every day since we moved into this house, the coushins worn down to fit the shape of my aging body, yet I know maulable enough to adapt to a new owner after I, for whatever reason, rid myself of it. I relax and litsen to your recolections, just like I have so many times before, closing my eyes as you take me back to the times we are living in this moment.