It's been so long that I can't remember what really happened.  What is true, what is false.  And I'm not sure if that bothers me much at all anymore.  Someday it will all fade, like the pencil marks on that plain white door, and I'm not sure if I will care.  I want to talk to you again, but I doubt I ever will.  I will let you slip through my fingers like so much so long ago.  That'll be the way it happens and maybe I won't like it at all.