I was in love once, about a year ago. She had curly hair and her heart beat like a hummingbird. Not to sound dramatic, but it was beautiful, it was art. My love for her was endless, and I saw her everywhere, in every crumpled piece of paper trash and every flower on the street. It was real, it was good, I love love, and I am good at it as well. I took a risk and told her; before that, I had never felt fear before. But somehow I knew, how did I know? I know things, I just knew, I just know. We talked about philosophy, about food, comedy, and pets, and I loved every second of her smile, but her beautiful mind was the best. And I lost it, I lost my love, my goose, my Tess, my sweet. I've regretted nothing more than that, but the regret is not mine to give. All I have is love, for a girl who said she loved me. I am a girl, and I thought she was the one. I've flung out every gossamer now, my hands stand limp and dead. The streetlights have burned bright since August, even though they aren't needed because the summer sky brings long light. My only guess is that they are gassed with Canadian lypophrenia, fueled by me, because somehow, I am still sad.