Heartwork

It's been more that 25 years since we last saw each other. I've been told that you died 20 years ago, when we were 16.

I hope that this is not true. I cannot find proof. Neither can I find proof that you even existed.

I hold hope deep within my heart that some day I will find you again. From the moment we met I always felt you in my heart. I hope it would be the same way again, because I don't remember your face.

It is possible that what I recall is an absolutely correct recollection of shared emotion, desire, and connectivity. But what if it isn't? What if you appear in my life to tell me differently. To tell me that I didn't mean as much to you. To tell me that you have had to hide your identity to hide from me. To tell me that I must remove any reference of you from my creation.

This is a morbid fantasy that I hold onto.

What a sick creature I am. I use the imagined romance of my childhood to fuel an equally fantastic idea of perfection. It ruins the possibility of creating new relationships. It destroys any romantic relationship I enter into.

You continue to be my Succubus. But are you of my own design?

I am sure, that if you are real and if you are dead, then you would not wish this upon me. You would want me to find happiness.

And if you are false. . .

Promise me, Kara, that when I die, I will get to see you again. If only for a moment.

I want to say that I miss you. Or that I love you.

But all I can say is that I want you.

I am sorry. No matter how many people I surround myself with, I am still lonely.