Perhaps he was art, a divine being misplaced to a path to something greater than myself; my body, my mind, my love a simple diversion from his path. I was too young to know what is real and what isn't, but as I sit here and watch the rain cry beside me as I feel my body begin to give in to something higher than myself, his memories, the memories of us flow fresh in my mind like a stream after a drought. I had never seen someone look so utterly ethereal before, from his eyes to his mouth, all seemed flourished with fruitful colour and hope; a hope many lack as they grow old. A childish hope. His hands holding a book which I had read only a week prior linking both him and I unintentionally in a work of inanimate objects holding remnants of their users. If you're a hopeless romantic, then you've found the right book. Short Story