I am a poet. I am a weaver of words, a seamstress of stories. I am alone. I am no longer naïve. I know that what I once so desired and believed to be true will never happen for me. I believe in whispered falsities, in ghosts of feelings past. I believe in the music, the poetry, the laughter. I am certain that life and love were so closely intertwined that it would have been impossible to end one without the other. I am certain that now as one fades, the other exists as a feeble shadow of its former vigor. I am searching for meaning.