Mayumi Nakamura 
M.G.R 
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The words I write upon the page cannot begin to explain the imprint you have left in my heart, it has been ages ago. To me you were the most desirable, special person in the world. My body still aches for the closeness, the bond we shared. I still think about you, all that you have become and do and then I remember, you are not who I remember anymore, but instead a new version of you. You have both helped and hindered me, the person that I was and the person that I have become. A part of me hated you for years, for torturing my heart strings and for a long period I wished to never lay eyes on you again. As for now, I still think of you, but I have packed you away in my mind and heart, a tiny minute space, a small package, but a lifetime of memories I could never regret.
It was then. And was until now...
I first thought you are better happy without me. Knew your fate was not mine to have. Not that I ever thought, but I'd flirt with the idea sometimes. I am lost. Some will say, try and find. But I prefer not to look anymore. I've already seen all the colors the rainbow lays. They'll tell you it should be enough. That the hurt only proves. They'll tell you all sorts of things. Because they know you'll listen. But I can't hear anymore what they're saying. Our time was then. And now is all I am. One wing tries, but isn't sufficient. Truth comes in sudden bursts and there is nothing I can do except watch the explosion.
Okay, so you only know me enough to smile vague recognition, but I have more of a sense of you beyond physical. I try and step outside of myself to ask why I might want this unreal and unrealistic obsession for years. There is the mirror in cool disconnect. Magnifying every fraying thread on the screws you twist fitted like second skin to that frail skeleton. There is the ink in hues of the deepest color flowing like blood to the end of every single vein in your skin. So much we are. But have never been. The nothing collects each moment as tomorrow tempts waning debates within. Distilling truth from lies. Neither quenches my thirst. But both are addictive. It was ugly as most things are. Blank with futility. Corrupt with hope. As sweet as the first taste. As sour as the last.
I can still feel in my bones and flowing through my blood that our story isn't finished being told. I know it the same way I know that the sun doesn't stop shining just because it gets dark outside. I stopped telling people, though, because I was supposed to stop and live like a hermit. Happiness is not happiness because it's on the other side. Do I have to get it?
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the answers; I 'm too preoccupied it seems with wondering about you, dreaming of scenarios where we might have become. The heart wants what the heart wants. So how to tend to the heart without losing oneself to its unreasonable demands? An age old question I guess, but I wish I had an answer. I am exhausted by this.
With lots of love but also frustration.