Her name is Sherry, and she is probably the most amazing person I've had the pleasure to know.

Her hair is black, her eyes are black, her clothes are black; but the rest of her is white, white, white. White like a new canvas that must be painted with the beautiful colors of a masterpiece. White like the pages of a story that has yet to be written. White like the clouds in the sky on happy days, and the walls of my new room, and angel's wings.

And when I'm with her - with her black and her white - , I feel like the world finally makes sense. There are no shades of gray, there are no colors in between. All that's there is black and white. All that's there is Sherry and I.

She settles in my mind as if she's been there all along, as if she was meant for me and completes me in a way that nothing ever has and nothing ever will. Her fingers play the tunes of my muse and her lips sing. Dear lord, they sing. They sing of autumn nights with the orange moon glowing halos in the darkness, they sing of the romantic roars of waterfalls that create rainbows as the vapor distorts my vision, they sing of warm arms surrounding my small, insignificant body when I feel too cold and jaded to move a single step.

The stories flow from her lips. Sometimes like a spring creek, clear and sparkling with fresh water from the chilled mountains. Sometimes like the flooding of a river, gushing, salty with tears. Sometimes like nothing more than a small trickle of water making its way through the parched dessert, desperate to be recognized, desperate to be useful, desperate to find hope in such a hopeless situation.

That water taints black just like Sherry's hair and eyes and clothes. It taints a pitch black and fills the vial of my pen, it taints pitch black and stains the paper that's as white as Sherry's skin, it taints pitch black and the words write themselves. As if they don't need my hands to guide them. As if they don't need my mind to create them.

As those words come into existence, I never know what to feel. Free, crushed with depression, so filled with potential yet nowhere for it to go - out of control. I'm so out of control.

Sherry's white fingers play another tune, and her lips sing another song. Her life writes the story.

I feel so, so alone in those moments.

I feel regret that Sherry is now only in my mind. I feel regret that Sherry can now only play and sing to tell her stories instead of personally sending the messages to me like how she wanted to. I feel regret for everything I did that ruined us.

Her name is Sherry, and she is probably the most amazing person I've had the pleasure to know.

I wish she was still here, if only to read this.

If only to tell her I'm sorry, and I miss her.

If only to thank her for always believing in me.