We are together, but there are spaces, spaces in the  way we think, most of all what is square to you is round to me.
I wonder why we don't feel have the same perception when we see the exact same object.
I grieve that I am a householder who wanted to be a saint and you grieve the saint still living in me.
Our feet are tied together, we drag it in the same direction, but our eyes catch the fancy of the exact opposite things.
I see beauty in solitude, but you like the crowd, the cacophony.
We are still together, I guess it means something.