Almost perfect

I watched the fading light of the dying day dim across the horizon as elusive remnants of sunlight slowly streamed in through the soft translucent curtains, throwing faint nameless shapes of quivering light on my bedroom floor, temporarily lending the room of an unrelenting shade of grey a certain, bitter sense of short-lived hope and optimism. I had often pictured us like this: our shadows stationary against the warm glowing tranquility of the setting sun, holding hands, saying nothing, smiling, as the streaks of twilight danced gently across the wrinkles which time had ruthlessly carved on our faces. But we were happy.

And there we were, in the yellowed photograph of my memory, almost perfect.