I never met you, knew you, or had your love but then I did. The image of the girl who would walk up to me in life, as if it were some railway station and laugh, smile and warm your heart in my embrace faded slowly from my hopes.
That image of your soft brown hair and loving eyes and cosy coat keeping you all warm, and with that scarf of yours peeping from your collar, and those brown shoes you loved, because your dad had bought them never materialised and so I made do with adding tales of disaster to a life apparently lived to amuse those more caring of themselves than I.
I dreamed of our conversations, and the way you’d smile when I did something silly, and how you’d know me like no other and make each moment with you like a prayer. I looked for you in places when young: confident that soon our paths would cross in some gallery or long since vanished bookshop, and then less frequently because the hope you’d match your step with mine faded with time and advancing years.
You would not love me now, raddled as I am by disappointment, and choices sculpted out of desperation rather than good judgement: the victim of my own chaotic search for perfection, rummaging through careers, and eating romance as if it were a chocolate: wasting my innocence on the fruitless quest to find you and build some idyll: passing my life in the search for the perfect moment.
Now, with my last sip of innocence, I reflect on my growing sense of obsolescence, part of a world disengaging from its rhythms in the blind search for improvement.