After and before

That image of her smiling, skin looking so ivory and soft, like something out of a photograph but without the harsh flash, of her smiling and speaking in a lulling low voice, and me knowing that they love her more than they ever will me. That ending when he said goodbye and how they two dragged a bit as if emotionally holding hands, drifting apart fingertip by fingertip. But does that mean I should stop trying? I don't know. Who am I, who was I once? Does it matter in the end. And I don't know what he thinks, and I want to ask but I do not ask, because how could I when the truth is staring us in our faces in the vision of a small faced girl. There is nothing I have to offer. Nothing more than just this, a scatterplot of oversized everything, everything too large and clumsy.