I dedicate this book to an old friend who understood me when others either couldn’t or wouldn’t. She was the only one I truly loved. We watched each other mature and became two great friends.
She knew I was in love with her, I made it no secret. However, some things are too beautiful to keep to one’s self, too beautiful to possess, too beautiful to hide, fearing you will lose it, or it might get stolen.
She was not one to love or be loved. Her young life had made her cold and left her bitter.
When I kissed her there was a coldness that disguised any taste, when I told her I loved her, it simply came out the other ear as though it were an echo in a lonely canyon.
When I took her hand, I could feel life’s calluses, not from work but from abuse of having been let down. She loved me the only way she knew how.
And when I had to let her go, I thought for sure the loneliness would kill me by way of a slow miserable death. But each day I awakened, until finally I had to wonder was it even real?
