Be with me. Stay with me. Walk with me. Not in such a way that you walk advancing ahead of me that permits my eyes only to wander upon the sight of the cold lingering shadows of your back, turned away in obscurity; nor in a manner that you would walk behind me—only provoking me to lose sight of what lies ahead that I might crane my strained neck to look behind at you and all of my agonizing past.

Instead, walk beside me. In the present, in accord and homage to the brevity of our youth. Though I cannot sing you a love song or write you a ballad, nor can I spin you a verse that would move your heart. The proximity of our company embraces our synchronized breathing, the pulse from my heart swings back and forth like a pendulum; two swinging lead weights passing in unison.

But above all do not idealize me. Do not elevate me to a pedestal to which I cannot fill. Believe in me, believe in my potential and whatever dormant empowerment I possess; but do not glorify me. If you love me, love me then for all my imperfections, my inadequacies, and faults. Love me because I am not perfect; such is that, a compassion for the beauty in the broken. That my story is not of heroes and heroines, of immortality, of defiance, and of conviction— but that my story is of introspection, of nostalgia, and of self-doubt, of uncertainty and of confusion.