"do they collide?", I ask you, and smile.

And you listened. Unlike the boys my age, who will not shift their ideas for anyone, any argument or -muse, you took my words as they were. You may be damaged, but there is such beauty in your scars, such rapture in tracing my fingers along the hills and valleys of those blemishes. I am in awe of your wisdom, your experience, your depths. You drink in my innocence, child-like but never childish.

I will help you carry your load, if you will hold me up on my weak knees.