I love you. And I'm leaving. And you say my name like a prayer and you say "She'll visit" like you're trying to convince yourself. And I can see you slowly slipping away as the possibility of what might have been withers to a future that you're not in. And everything ends. And we are all ghosts with the end to our life stories already written. And I am like a dandelion with my fuzzy thoughts scattered on the wind of a wish you once made. And I love you. And I have a family history of Alzheimers. And in 40 years I may not remember your name and in 50 years I may not remember the color of your eyes. And in 60 years I may not remember your laugh or your smile or the way you say my name. And I love you. And I know I'm merely prolonging the inevitable and we are all doomed to eradication. I know no one will remember your name or mine in 500 years and they certainly won't remember that I loved you. And I love you. And you are running both to and from. And so am I and just for a moment your hand slipped into mine. And I love you. And everyone knows that porch swings are meant for two but I sit on mine by myself because I'm constantly pushing my bare toes against peeling paint on crumbling wood, waiting for you. And the swing creaks and you never show. And I love you.