How easy it is to fall in the myths of our childhood when confronted with something.
Maybe you once were the Little Red Riding Hood, maybe I was once the wolf. Or maybe (most likely), we're not, or the roles were reversed at the outset.
Maybe you were Rapunzel, pent atop the tower, but it was not a prince who came. And it was not you who brought the rope to escape, but he.
To run where you would, as he heard your call, loud and clear. To run where you would, alone or with him.
Not the fabled blue prince, but a livery boy with blues in his blood.
That was (is?) the tale. No more and no less.
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