Memory and Desire

Is it true the redhead died as sexy for you coming out of childhood?
That your bow, once strung taut, began loosely untwanging for her,
discordant, your crooking arrow twisting just so far
as a weakening thrust allowed while you gave up on her.
You say ‘no’, the arrow has always been and still is straight and strong,
your thoughts about the redhead just as ardent now and prick-pin sharp,
never having gone soft or died over all these years.
We agree then to disagree, my eyes telling me what’s gone is gone,
you asserting that my eyes deceive, and my mind warps reality.
Well, where is she then, the early object of your affection?
You could easily point her out to me if she’s anywhere to be seen. 
I look around and plainly apprehend she’s nowhere to be found.
Think back honestly on what came to pass between the two of you,
note how imperfect memory fades to sting away the truth.