A week passed, the ballet came and went. Years went by the theater in a matter of seconds, the dancers grew past their dreams, grew up. The actors started families. The painters married their lovers, who drew hearts around their squares. She passed through the theater doors in a coat that went to her knees. She walked through every single seat just to take up time, despite the rushing winter outside. She touched the left corner of the stage where he used to sit and listen to his French tapes. She walked languidly past the curtain and touched the paintings he made out of starvation. His bones were clear in her memory, but his face was a fancied blur, a five or ten year memory from her last ballet; she has lost count of the years. She had forgotten the dance, but remembered her hands that last night as they dyed the blonde away. She shook as she pushed through old props waiting for summer sunshine that hadn't come. A door stood ajar in a far corner, and with every last wish in her heart, she pushed toward it. Peeling yellow paper dust greeted her as her head turned toward the loveliest sight in the world. Pinned to a white canvas was a faded red ribbon, and in the high left corner he had written his signature in now faded ink. Pulling a fountain pen out of her coat pocket, she spelled the words that took her all those years to say.

You are perfect

Rest in Peace to all of those who died in the quest of perfection