I did not choose you.
You came up behind me in a sneak attack,
your hands resting on my shoulders
in a way that tells me everything is fine.
But fine is fickle,
and it crawls through the darkness,
laughs with the shadows
whilst we debate its meaning.
You joined me
with the efficiency of a child
climbing the shelves for chocolate,
and I did not walk in
until it was already gone.
I revel in your stubbornness.
I know you get it from me,
because I never left the corner of this sentence
until the ink had bled out
of a pen I was still holding,
begging to be worth something.
But I leave,
because that's the only thing
you trained me to do.