Lost for the Memory. For eight months we danced the tortured course of indecision and loneliness, finding in each other's eyes such promises and tenderness but never daring to break the silence that we may find our path mistaken. Such fragile history, how I long to see you, if only to touch your sight again and feel your smile one last time. I shall miss your voice, and countenance. I have been a fool's delight, never daring to tell you my heart's deep longing, lest you find it repulsive, or disturbing. My deathly seriousness has killed all that may have been between us. I am not of frivolous blood, as I ought to be. My jests of conscience are old and simple, dwelling too long in the space of too many thoughts. I condemn myself before the act, as both rash and weak. O Gaylia, I pray someday you may find me a worthy friend, someone to bring you unhalting joy or confidence. I have never treated you well, and doubtless deserve your scorn. But consider me a child, clumsy at the boundary of the heart, and know I loved you as much as one can, who has not the sense nor acquaintance, to bring it voice.