You and I had always followed an old line of reasoning, my line.
Now you are your own. My ideas will not serve you as you require.
Nor are my old feelings as diverse, as consequential as you need.
I am a man, getting older. You have long been a woman, competent
at life’s intricacies, surprises and stubborn as a mule antagonisms.
We both are trumped by obligations to our genders, tramping on
at our own pace, with mounting secrets embarrassing to share,
speciously speculative, masters of sophistry in empty rooms,
particularly my personal brand of noncommercial reasoning.
Certainly, as you age and grow, this may sadden you. But remember
how bright hues add their spirit to your palette; how your admirers
have taken to looking into, under and around your inspirations; how
your future emerges, as made clear by the difficult roads that open
to you, apparently roads that open only for you. Thank you, dear,
for sharing with me a perfect clarity that this is how it should be.