To the Dreamer:
You are not the manic pixie dream girl frolicking about the periphery whose eyes never fully focus, not that sort of dreamer - but, not being you, I lack the proper word. (Being me, I can't substitute an image and trust to its successful interpretation. Hell, I just used the phrase "successful interpretation.")
You describe your experience of the temporal world to me, the joy you take in sensations I too often overlook; I think I must be fumbling to perceive your reality in exactly the same way we all begin to relate our dreams but falter because the very act of describing them has chased away the ephemera that gave them their true quality. And so we use insufficient words: I call you a dreamer and know you are not. You are far too present in this world, more so than I.
My best friend told his wife that I can see shades of gray where some see gray and most see only black and white. I thought that great praise, until I met someone who experiences the whole color spectrum with synesthetic fullness. You awe me.
To the Pragmatist:
We have yet to take the full measure of one another's intensity. My pragmatism says, "It's not time for that yet." Yours continues, "...so we're not going to do that yet."
All of the things I know have brought me to this diving board, where I stand both well enough trained to execute a seamless entry and fully aware that I'm about to cannonball. You stand at the shallow end, where much of the same training took you. Motioning to the steps, beckoning.
I'm on my way down. (If I look at the board wistfully every now and then, try not to hold it against me.) You ground me.