Let me tell you about myself. I am a poet. I live by the feelings in here, my heart, my emotions. To me you are beautiful, but that is not to say that you are beauty. For there is much that I find pleasing to my senses in this life. More I dare say, than not. I am a man rooted in the past and present, more so than in the future, or in some mystical world. I guess you can say that I live so because the feelings I have, minute to minute, are deeply ingrained in my subconscious. They are me. Changing, adaptive, a novelty even upon reflection. A person's feelings are all they have to hold them to this world. They give a continuity within time which is so important.

And what is it you say--you don't love me anymore? I who have given you all that I could. A very selfish fellow. What a laugh. Bitter sweet upon the tongue. The sharpness of emotional pitch equal to any other realization. That death is universal. That one's powers are a mockery before it. That in declaring it, you open yourself up to more trauma. Yet, you do it again and again.

We know eachother well, you and I. So much so, that we battle over meaningless nothings, uncompromising in the face of eachother's weaknesses. To the point of showing nothing but bitter strength.

Why do you stare back at me like that? Does the emptiness of my glass cause your laughter? Well my dear, you were always as free with your laughter as you were with your anger.

How many times have I held you in my arms like this? Yet there was always something, like a glass wall between us.

You never tried to understand me, did you. Always acting as if I were someone else, a long dead dream, perhaps. And now its more true than any reality that we shared.

Remember the time we got caught out in the rain, and, and your new chiffon dress started to run. And your legs turned blue. And you said it wasn't the dress, but heredity--a distant aunt on your mother's side.

We walked all the way home from the dance. And how we walked, singing every song we knew that had something about rain in it

Dancing in the puddles in front of old man Winter's house. Boy was your mother mad. She was certain that you'd caught your death of cold. When she spilt that basin full of hot water all over the floor, we nearly dies laughing. And you ended up on the floor with your feet wiggling in the air... Ho, oh how I loved you then.

Go, take your memories. Leave me even as that crack of thunder masked the shattering of your picture, glass and frame upon the floor. It is rare that I allow such destructiveness to surface. You were always the one for that.

Perhaps, if I had been stronger... but no, I am what I and. I apologize for nothing. Everyone expresses strength or weakness differently.

For me, perhaps... it is time to give my mind a rest from all of this.

This fog seems more than I can endure. Good night and good by. For you I shall cry no more.

Oh why did you leave me like this. Why did you take THAT plane?

I did love you.

I still do.

Perhaps I'll never get over the experiences of our relationship. The times we spent, sharing, caring are etched in my memories, my once most cherished dreams. As are the lines on my face, which you once called handsome and wanted to use as a model for your paintings.

Many were the times I wanted to dig those paintings out of the deep recesses of yesterday's discards and destroy them...

But no. Let me take one last look.

I know they are in here somewhere. Damn! I know they are in here somewhere.

Why.

Why did you take them with you.

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