You sat there patiently in the back of my mind.
I tried my best to keep you from reaching the front
But there was no point in resisting,
For as much as I would try to stop you,
You would find your way there eventually.

You didn't pressure me.
You remained quiet, pensive,
Allowing me to peruse the library card catalog within myself,
Urging me to search until I finally discovered the perfect publication.

I tentatively opened the book:
Its binding still tight, its pages barely opened
As new books often are.
Upon reading the first few pages, however,
I noticed a few ink blotches and printing errors within the text.
The book wasn't perfect after all; it had been slightly worn.

I quickly grew accustomed to my imperfect novel,
Finding the value in its words.
I learned of its wisdom, and, despite its flaws,
It always left me feeling somehow more fulfilled,
More self aware than I ever could have imagined.

I reached what I thought was the end,
Only to realize that no such thing existed in my book.
I spoke to you grudgingly, thinking you would have some sort of an explanation.
You told me that you were the co-author;
The end of the book was reserved for my completion.

We began to write our history, as we do to this day.
I have allowed you, willingly, to approach the foreground of my thoughts now,
And thus, our story will endlessly progress.