You were a story. I was desperate to read you. I needed your words to be spoken inside my skull. I flipped through your pages, my thumb brushing your deckle edges, knowing I’d never have the time to finish. I let my index finger stroke a lone embossed line of letters, symbolic of such a small fragment of your beauty. How I wanted to savor your prose but I gasped in your vowels every time I came up for air. I marveled at your insights, treated the foreshadows like mere clouds passing by, and dog-eared pages with passages to which I yearned to return. To reread. To somehow share with the world. This. This! Beyond the page. Unfettered by language. You.
And yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion; there are names I can never hear spoken without starting.
– Hyperion, Henry Longfellow