I grew up under endless skies,
    where the Mojave stretched out
    like a silent promise—

A place of dry winds and dirt roads,
    of tiny towns where time moved slow.

Where the hum of cicadas,
    the howls of coyotes,
    the rumble of the earth,
    and the crackle of campfires

    were the soundtrack of childhood.

You were raised in the rhythm of a different song—
    the suburbs of Saint Louis,
    where the city whispered just beyond reach.

Life moved to the pulse of streetlights,
    the rustle of trees,
    and the chatter of neighbors.

My world was one of cowboy boots and dust,
    of sonic booms and Joshua trees,
    sheep herds crossing empty highways—

    and all of those endless summer nights.

Yours held city parks and cul-de-sacs,
    the scent of freshly cut lawns
    and the hum of passing cars.

Yet, Sundays?

Somehow, they were the same.
    Too-early church services,
    hands folded, eyes heavy.

    Then football— always football,
    the ritual that made the day whole.

Different places,
    different teams,
    but the same devotion,

    wrapped in the static of the screen.

Later,
    I wandered south,
    settling in Texas—

    a land of wide highways and sprawling horizons,
    where traditions mixed like the swirl
         of sweet tea and mesquite smoke.

And you?

You made Atlanta home—
    a city of charm and rhythm,
    where the skyline stands tall

    and life flows in an upbeat, steady cadence.

I was raised in a world steeped in stories—
    tales passed down around crowded tables,
    where Mexican flavors mingled
    with the wisdom of native roots,

    and the family grew large like the desert sky.

Your world was rich with its own stories—
    Stories I've not yet heard,
    but their echoes linger in your laughter,

    in the way you move through the world
    with a grace that speaks of history.

Now, I live by the sea,
    where the waves speak a language
                   I’ve always loved.

My days are filled with salt air
    and the hum of circuits—

    a surfer’s heart in a geek’s skin.

You remain in Atlanta,
    effortlessly stylish,
    a hip accountant—

    navigating numbers and deadlines with grace.

Two worlds,
    so different yet somehow aligned—
    paths that never crossed until they did,

And now, they run parallel.

Woven together by words,
            by laughter,
            by discovery

And yet, here we are.

Trying to make sense of the space between us,
    measuring the miles,
    timing the flights,

    calculating…
                Always calculating.

How to keep something
    so improbable,
    so unexpected…

    alive and moving forward.

Perhaps it’s the contrasts that bind us:
    the desert and the city,
    the native and the urban,
    the waves and the skyline.

Or perhaps it’s the sameness we uncover
    in the spaces between—
        the shared quirks,
        the quiet dreams,

        the way our voices find harmony in the blend.

Two worlds,
    still separate,
    but inching closer—

    toward the possibility of something new…
                                            something Ours.