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-Confucius had his Analects and I have my journal-
I remember the first time I saw you: I was in the passenger seat and you were telling me about a scar on your neck. You told me that you loved your mother more than anyone, that you missed her, and that I ought to cherish mine while I still have her.

The last time I saw you, you told me love wasn't for you. I always thought speaking was an open, expressive action, but those very words closed us both. You in expressing your past and current disappointment and I in my dangerous doubts.

I consistently experienced your presence weeks then-after. The waning hope directed our dwindling desire to our last kiss. It was desperate, disappointing, passionate, yet passionless. I used sate myself with your hope.

But that was so long ago. I find that nostalgia softens the edges of experience like an Impressionist painting. If I looked too quickly on the subject, it would become delightful. On closer inspection, I find that memory betrays: Where were those unbearable edges that bore into me so? Why can't I find the lines that seemed so impossible to cross?

I can recall the facts and motivations, but I can't remember you vividly anymore.

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