The world is a blank canvas, my mind wiped clean with the snow.
I miss you, still. My memories of you linger as if you were dead. And maybe you are, as far as the person I knew is concerned. Because when I talk to you now, she isn't there. But maybe for you it's the same. Maybe when you talk to me, I'm not there anymore either.
And maybe that's the inescapable truth of it all. Those versions of ourselves are as lost as the ancestor from which they evolved. And we are bound to this process of becoming new creatures, of growing out of each other again and again until there's nothing left of our hearts but efficient little stones.
Throw them into dark bodies of water, watch them sink.