I hold the velvet handkerchief; its crumpled form is barely felt against my hardened skin. Memories soon replay themselves, and I crush the white memento in the coils of my fist. Yet still I long for her, and bring the perfumed article under my nose. A moment there, standing, and I am not myself; but soon returned, the unblemished fabric is cast aside.
Some weakness left, some part still tender, costs me one repentant glance, and I watch the fluttering flight of the white handkerchief as all I ever wanted falls into the soiled streets. But I was done, and I knew no one would ever love me.