That's her. The one on the right, so fitting as everything she says, everything she does is right.
She's right, all the time.
This is not a seething report of horrors done to me by one who got too close.
This is all the things she was, all the things she is, this is all that I could dream to hope for.
This is an account of all I could dream to hope for.

She is all I could ever dream to hope for.

She is the star I see first when I look up at the night sky and the cloud that blocks it from my failing sight.
She is the perfection I once wished for,
She was the light of the moon and the glow of the sun with the brilliance of the earth reflecting off her perfect skin.
She is more than I could dream to hope for.
She is eternally my better. She stayed when all was gone and she survived from nothing.
She survived from nothing, and I died. And when I looked from death and saw her still breathing, I cried a thousand dead tears, I died I second death when I saw her still alive. I was dead. I had abandoned her.

I abandoned her.

When I was taken I left her. I left her in the blackest night I could ever have created.
And I died where I was taken.

She was more than I could dream to hope for.

She didn't change. I left her another way. Our first connection was appearance. At first glance I saw a straight-haired depiction of myself. That is what I would look like If I were perfect. She is me, but she is perfect.

I am disorder, she is perfect.
I am level thirty, she is perfect.
I am a paint-splattered T-shirt, she is perfect.
I am pretty, she is perfect.
She is perfect, I am ugly.
She is perfect, I am thin-rolled clay in her hands.
She is perfect, I am infantile.
She is perfect, I am the old gym shoes you hand off to the homeless man because you don't have any cash.
She is perfect, I am less.
She is perfect.

To me, she was the sun, the moon, and the clouds that hide them away.
She was my mother, she was my sister, she was my wife, and she was my child.
She was my fire, and she was the water that put my fire out.
She was my inspiration, and she was the stifling pressure that took my inspiration away.
She kidnapped me and I was her kidnapper.
She was my earth and she was my sky.
She was my water and she was my food.
She was the ocean current, changing every hour, and she was my grounding as dirt is to the flowers.

She was more than I could hope to dream for.
She is perfect.

She didn't change.
As I grew taller, so did she, yes, but truly she has not changed.
Her temperament is still what it was, her words still weigh iron and steel.
Her charm didn't fade, her smile hasn't changed.
And her hair.

My bloody wretched curse has forever been these temperamental coils springing from my skull.
Fifteen years these springs have browned upon my head and never have the failed to take nothing in a day.
And now they're turning color.
I pray that this is my final crime against her. I am no longer her image. My hair, my connection, my solitary diversion, abandons me at this crossroads where I will eternally mourn what I have lost to her.
My perfect.
All I could dream to hope for.
She has not changed.
Dare I pray that she will not change?

I remember the summer I waited for her.
Vaguely, through thick and angry clouds, I remember.
I remember the summer I spent at home, waiting for her letters.
I spent three months seeking any evidence of her.
I read each sheet a million times, perhaps more.
Absolutely more.
Infinitely more.
I pressed every word she wrote up to my heart hoping it would stick there forever.
My perfect.
All I could dream to hope for.
I remember her.
Dare I pray she might remember me?

I lost my chance to save her.
My perfect,
All I could dream to hope for.
I failed her.
I know she never would have failed me.

I gave her everything I had and all I knew.
She gave me five drops of her self.

She gave me the world by her eyes.
In return, I offered my vision for the future.

She gave me the chance to play her game.
In return, I made her eternal empress of my own.

She gave me her words, scrawled perfect as she.
I returned to her every one of my own words.

She gave me her name, to call her by.
In return, I gave her all that she would give me.

And she gave me her memories.
In return, I threw all of mine away.

My perfect,
All I could dream to hope for.
I gave her my future and my past.
And I could never ask it back.

My perfect,
All I could dream to hope for.
I failed her.
And I can never have her back.
But I know.

If some day, my perfect angel were to rise from her grave, I would be her marrionette.
Anything she could dream to have I would give her.
Anything of mine she wanted she could have.
Anything of yours she wanted she could have.
Because she is all I could dream to hope for.
My perfect.

She survived the day I died.