Memory is a funny thing.
Time seems to sacrifice your mind like a goat on a satanic alter.
I had a dream about you last night. It’s really strange because I’ve never had a dream about you before. What’s equally weird is that I think about you a lot, despite the fact that you assume that you no longer cross my mind. You had a blue dress on and you were glowing, a look of happiness from what I can assume to be the product of an appropriate lover. I valued you much so more than a piece of ass, but for some strange reason you’ve convinced yourself that you were too damaged and that redemption was out of the question.