An Editor's Note On My Editor

We met at an unfairly emotional time of both of our lives: I was bed-ridden with an illness born from my natural design, which is to love and feed off nothing but that love; he was coming to grips with the fact that he was an editor. The editor calculates success constantly. The editor rearranges ventricles to create a much prettier leaf. The editor pores over stars stamped into books and makes dwarfs out of them. We were not set to get along, but then again, much of what I never got along with became the flask for my elixir of personality. My editor is such a flask, mysteriously self-filling and fulfilling. I've borrowed from him greatly, whenever my cracked lips reveal their worn flaws, every time I'd disappear from myself, reappearing with the smallest pull from the flask, my editor. There is, I know it, a story to be told here, but my editor has just texted me asking me to tell the story about when we first met, and I am struggling to tell him it, so now my attentions should return undivided to my editor, like an undivided captain nodding towards the bow.