You and I are far from simple. I dreamt of you every summer night; my obsessive urge to see you in a world outside of reality was rather precarious. I missed you more than I really should have because in honesty, I never knew you, not well enough. I cried because no one ever tells you this but memories are memories for a reason, stamped in your lifetime of photographs, not ever replicated in the same way for anyone else. You’ll never remember me the same way I remember you. At the vulnerable age of seventeen, I felt immortal, life was far more than a gossamer string of images, and you were my ubiquitous fantasy. I believe in time; although deceptive, I can’t help but drown myself in its sublime nature, its power to mend wounds and alleviate pain. Delicate, time still remains grandiose and in utmost ways, sanctifying. And I can’t help but wish that in time and in its delicacy, I’ll lose you and my memories of you.