This is me.
This is you.
This is where I worked when we met, the downtown shop, all expensive and flowery.
This is you, driving up in your car, and here I am, waiting.
This is where we ate, our first date, and this is the song that made you pause, grinning at its serendipity.
This is the park we drove to that night, the paths we strolled down, the roses in bloom.
This is you, driving away in your car. This is me, wishing you weren't driving away.
This is my plane ticket, to return to college.
This is the telephone I spent hours on, listening to your voice coming from so very far away.
This is me, home once again. This is you, driving up in your car.
This is the place where you hugged me, hugged me so hard that you gave away your mission: one square ring box in your chest pocket.
This is the park we went to on that first date, but the roses are no longer in bloom. This is you, on your knee. This is me, smiling so hard that I cried.
This is us.
And as long as there is you and there is me, all is right with the world.
Happy anniversary, Gingerbread Man.