She was my first love. From the night I first met her I knew I could love her. Standing in her kitchen, with friends and family around, she stood out to me like an angel. And I would later say as much to my brother. I remember that feeling as if it were yesterday.
I gave her my heart and asked her to keep it safe. Years later, she brought it back to me in Venetian alley ways and I didn't recognise the beautiful potential before me. I didn't feel the history, the emotion, the connection. It was still there - I still did and will always love her - but I didn't nurture what then was her fragile openness to me, as the ways of the world I understood not.
She tried to help me across a pool table. I should have listened. She lost her passport when landing back in the capital city. I didn't give her the degree of kindness I should have. Lawyer was I. Dancer was she. She'd brought such love into my life before. I should have chased it, nurtured it, cherished it again. I didn't.
I have all the letters she ever sent me when she lived across seas. She'd spray her perfume on them. I loved receiving them, sparkled as they were and remain with beauty, emotion and laughter.
There they now sit, like orphans awaiting a shared discovery that will, in all likelihood, never come.