1.22

Sometimes, I feel like I put you on a pedestal and expected too much. You were always honest with me from the beginning, but I built a personal narrative without consulting you, and that narrative wasn't realistic. I only know that afterwards, of course. Nobody's perfect.
Sometimes though, I think back to the time we had and I realize it was actually really good (hanging out with you and hearing your ideas and goals and desires and future. We were really right, as things go, a beautiful pairing of mental intrigue and physical calescence, every meeting stripping away sodden layers of armor and briefly dying of exposure in a crashing rainstorm until our chiral minds touch sudden electric a raw exposed nerve ending tense and fervid an ache a need a fear. We were pyretic) right up until it fell. A tower of dominoes that shocks and amazes you until one tiny piece slips and the rest of the construction evaporates and you didn't even get a chance to look at it go.
We were two saucers, too long used, chipped and stained and well-loved by others, trying to find if our cupboard should be the same. It turns out we didn't even belong in the same house.

I wasn't fair to you, because I didn't let you know I had mythologized what should have been reality until it was all over. How could I have hinted to you the marble, beautiful smooth and white, I used to carve the tableau of our future? How could I show you the imperious forever I dreamed? It wasn't fair to you that I only told you I loved you once the final knell of us had silenced its long roll.
You had a profound influence on me, and not for worse. Is that fair to say? Is that alright? Neither one of us has to be perfect. You did right by me.

Leave me, Scarmarella. I still miss you.