Unsayable Confusion

Sometimes it seems like a distant dream, and I half-wonder if she was a wild figment of my imagination, but faded photographs, now the only reminder, prove to me that the relationship was real, that she was real. Yet, we went from pure passion to stony silence; and, again, I question if things were ever that good between us, or if my memory is playing tricks, as Proust would probably argue? written 25 November for Nette's Unsayable contest