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216 Friday, August 3, 1928 I somehow feel we will. There has been far too much between us — we have shared too many moods and emotions and experiences to lose eachother completely. And while love is impossible — our interests, our make-ups being too wide apart, friendship, when we are maturer and wiser, may grow. I like to think that is so, childish as it may be. And I want to believe that. When my perspective on all this is clearer I will write more, but for now I can say that although I am sorry we can't relive what was, and although I can sympathize with Bob, I feel I did the only thing, the wise thing. 217 March 20th [[strikethrough]] Saturday, August 4, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] What has gone between the last writing and this — the first flush of re-living, the physical attraction, the romanticism of a rememberance, the little differences again, my family, Bob's glaring faults standing before me naked, the earnest fanning of the little flame that is left, my callousness to him, and the weekend at Vassar with its shades & variations — are too long to write. C'est tout fini. Post Mortem How can it be that we who felt and shared So much can be so alone now, apart Indeed? How can it be that I who cared So passionately for your thoughts, whose heart, Quite silent 'till it felt the rhythm of yours beat, Can be of stone-like texture now? I, who Reached avidly for estacy, can meet Indifferently a smile or sigh from you! How can it be? Why wonder why? It's so — And stripped of love, find affection bare, Your trivialities now bore. We seem Not only to have burnt the bridge quite low But to have widened out what breach was there; Our love, like all the rest, was but a transient dream.
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