Just for the record, I am the one who loves her the most.
She could never see that I was always with her. I was the old ragged toy she always had. The type of toys which can not be broken or torn, that only grow shabbier by the years, which would only remind her that once upon a time she was young. Many moons have passed since then. Change has not left her untouched. I have waited as time taught me. She lived frivolously with her harem of beasts and holymen. Every night, I had bled, her laughter bellowing in the hallways, the whole world shifting out of joints. I have run out of lives.
The angel wings tattoes on my back are gone. I have shed my skin and grown plastic feathers. Thinking of jumping to a bloody death is death still. At such a junction, the mind crosses over. The body adapts. I had jumped off the rooftops after her, taken a tumble down dark, bottomless holes. I have evolved. Come next fall, I would soar towards the heavens. My chest feathers are aligned, eager to taste speed. Wind would talk to me. She would whisper her ancient names, the ones which the sky never called her by.
Her farewell was cold, prompt and spotlessly clean, bordering on insanely subtle. I never had a chance to tell her that I dont want to let her go. She never turned back, not once. Now that she is gone, I do not want to see her again. The last goodbye is the hardest.
Just to set the records straight, I am still the one who loves her the most.
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