You were my Peter Pan.
And I, your Tinkerbell.
I nearly died for you, Peter.
And I'm sorry for being jealous of the Wendy-bird.
Does she really tell better stories than me?
(I suppose I was never really good with words.)
Is it true? Can she really tuck you in and make you eat your vegetables?
I thought you weren't supposed to grow up.
We promised each other that we wouldn't.
And yet, there you go.
You'll forget how to fly. How to crow.
And someone will take your place.
And either you won't be happy about it, or you'll have forgotten about me altogether.
(Life changes. And I think that this change will be good in the long run. It's just not always easy.)