I found this poem on stumbleupon and decided it could be an interesting take on what Ed might feel for Winry at the end of the series, between the last episode and the movie.

NOTE: This is an edited version, posted in November 2012, looking back I saw how flawed the original was, and though this version might not be perfect, I think it's still better than the first.

To all my readers for "A Second Sister", I'm not going to continue the story. I'm just not into the fandoms for either category anymore, see profile for more details.

I don't own any familiar ideas; I'm not creative enough to even conceive of anything as awe inspiring as Fullmetal Alchemist In addition I lost the author of the poem so I can't give him/her direct credit, oops.

Love

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

Winry,

It's been two years; two impossibly long years since you've nearly killed me with your wrenches for almost breaking your automail, since we've gotten into stupid arguments, since I've seen your smile.

I hope I didn't make you cry again, but I know I probably have.

It's so confusing here. I see familiar faces, but they're not the people I've left behind. Who are these people who carry the faces of my friends? They look, and may even act like them, the doppelgangers, but can never act perfectly like the originals. Something is always off, even if it is just something small.

Is this purgatory? To look upon the faces of those who I have lost, to death or distance, and know that they could never forgive me, would never forgive me, because these people do not truly know me.

I found a younger Maes falling in love with Gracia; I saw him alive and knew that he would move the stars in the sky just to make her happy. That lovable, camera obsessed fool would do anything just to be noticed by her. And he will never forgive me for causing his death, for Them coming after him, just for helping me.

I saw a young librarian too. One who could have been Nina if she was still alive, laughing and talking about her dad, saying that he could get so obsessed in his work that he would starve to death if she never forced him to get out and eat. And she too can never absolve me from my sins, for never saving her from her father, from Scar. And I think the sight of her face, older and more mature, cuts deeper. Because I know that this is the woman that the innocent girl who only wanted a playmate could have grown up to be, if I was only smarter, faster, and more observant.

But of all of the ghosts from my past, the sight of Al, in a real body, older and completely innocent, as obsessed with rocketry now as we were with alchemy is the most heartbreaking. Looking at his face, never having seen death or experienced heartbreak, as cheerful and childlike as our own Al, it's a constant neverending reminder of my greatest failure. My gravest mistake, the one that created the homunculus Sloth, that cost Al his body and my own inability to find a way for him to get his body back again, shoved back in my face, day after day.

The only consolation I have is that I haven't seen a poor copy of you. Because I'm convinced that, that is what she would be: a duller washed out version of you, your face without the spark that drove, no drives you, or a stranger with your face, who doesn't glow, or jump at the chance to get new wrenches, someone with a familiar face but not your essence, what makes you, you Winry Rockbell.

But I still feel sad, like I'm forgetting your face, the way your eyes lit up when I saw you smile and talk about automail, the way you would yell at me for destroying your creations in my carelessness, or how you would try to bully me into drinking milk. Like the masochist I am, if I saw her, that woman with your face, I don't think I would ever be able to look away. I would obsess over her for hours, just because she reminds me of you.

I wish I could see you again the true you, if for but one second. Just to see your face again, and not just someone wearing your image like a mask.

I'm determined to get home, to see you and Al again.

I miss you so much. I know I'm not good at putting words together, but maybe, if you ever read this, you would get what I'm trying to say, what I never had to courage to tell you before:

I love you Winry Rockbell.