we<-->me

The longer I live, the farther she gets from me. I lived with her once, constantly. Then she drifted and became an ideal I would reach one day--and that day, I'd feel successful and whole. But days pass and I doubt she'll ever come back to me. I begin to wonder if I can live with just me, without her to give that meaning, that hope of redemption some day. Slitted wrists and melodrama tempt and yet can never be.

She is dead. That confident, gregarious woman. Though only I knew of her, she was still as real and tangible as the summer sun. I mourn her as a dear, precious friend, now gone forever. No one mourns beside me, for the world never truly saw her. I skim through her past and her thwarted future, but it's painful to look through it and despair at the futility of it all! Melted dreams and disappearing hopes now remain like scattered debris from a happy picnic that only lives now in sepia-mind-photographs.