You and me and your fortress

I’m not in that fortress with you – I never was. I set up my camp by your door and reached my hand through the portcullis to touch yours. You tried to pull me through, because you love me and wanted me next to you, but you wouldn’t open the portcullis. I asked you to come outside with me, on the grass, and see the blue sky and feel the wind on your face – but you didn’t know what I was talking about, because you’d never been outside your fortress and never learned to look up. You kept the portcullis closed and stayed in your fortress and you think if I love you that I should find some way to squeeze through the portcullis, into your fortress to close myself inside and that it will be me and you against the world – but I don’t want to be against the world, I want to explore the world.

I won’t try to force you to open the portcullis and leave the fortress. I’d be willing to come back, again and again, to reach through the portcullis and clasp your hand in mine, but I won’t be held here, where the roof of your fortress prevents the sun from reaching my skin. I won’t stand here, held against the roughness of wood and metal, unable to sit or to rest. If you won’t let go of my hand and let me rest where I can see the sky and the water and the grass and feel the wind on my face, I’ll be forced to pull my hand from yours – and by the time you let go, I may only have the strength to leave, not to return.

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