Do you remember how you loved me? I wouldn’t blame you for forgetting. No matter how bright your memories are, they get lost, they deteriorate. No matter how real your feelings were, with time, they lose their meaning. I should let mine. Yet here I am on this day, so many years away, our moments stretching out before me — torn to shreds by my pretending. Reproductions woven from the threads of my own disintegrating memory. Who have I been kidding, all this time? I don’t weave, can’t sew us back into being. I am a fake, they are all lies — there is no you. And this is just so pathetic, this circuitous rambling to give my life meaning. When your side of the conversation will always be missing. We might as well call it an exercise in futility… but, then again, the same can be said about so many things. So why not? I may as well. And perhaps, one day, I’ll wake up and the desire to talk to you will have vanished, along with everything we were. But for now, this will have to make do.