These past years

I have traced the line of our difference,
acute angle growing ever more distant
from inception when I
was exactly half you.

But lately, shouldering my bag
and off to work, small cog
in lumbering wheel, I guess
similarity. In stretches
of conscientious, contemplative soul
into proscribed time constraints,
I sense again the shared hinge,
a way we still meet
long after you are gone.

On the path back I find within myself
expressions of your bright interest:
how does it, she, they work--processes and people?
For both of us there is no such thing
as not to care.