An impatience stirs within me as I pass this place again, the memory of something I still miss boiling in my breast, the feel of which I seek to rekindle yet can’t, call it love if you must, yet clearly more than lust. How could I forget you when no power on earth could shake from my heart what I remember of you. Not a minute passes when something fails to make me recollect you or recall as beguiled I became around you, as to make me blind, or to remind me of that which I have lost if erringly. All that transpired, which only makes the hurt return, renewed if not quite as intense, I come to the edge of the water seeking relieve and come away with the remnants of grief, know what it is I lost, and knowing that now or in the future I will never have it again, though if there is any remedy, I still see your face as vivid as I did that first time, and I still treasure it.
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