My collection of memories
mostly alone with you,
though so frequently opened,
never loses value.

But what I've noticed recently
of this album I hold dear
is that so much has been changing
now that you're not here.

Each time the cover's opened,
each time I feast my eyes,
something gets distorted
and one small detail dies.

I'm losing real reality,
and replacing it with my own -
it's frightening how much
my imagination's grown.

Our fights and anger
have been erased
to where only joy remains
to tell your grace.

My faults are highlighted,
more guilt inscribed
to my mistakes, and your
forgiveness of my lies.

You're ideal now, and perfect;
almost to where I can't
picture or reason as to how
you allowed me, with you, to stand.

Now you're just my celebrity,
someone to whom I can only be a fan;
I cannot ask you to stay by my side -
nor can I reach out to grab your hand.

So here's my fan letter to you
and my farewell;
though you will never read this,
nor of its receiver's name will I tell.