“You are the love of my life,” she says.
She is crying to him, reasoning,
Trying to feel her way around this heartache
That even he isn’t ready—or willing—to face.
They are broken, this pair,
The perfect love shattered
By a stupid, stupid move,
A sharp stab out of nowhere
That’s desecrated the vision they both had
Of what this could be.
When he tells her again he loves her,
That he is always there, ready to catch her
Just like before, as if nothing has changed,
She is struggling to understand
How he never got it.
How he, the lover, the man of promises
The one who knew her better than anyone else
Or so he thought,
He who saw everything that no one else could
Or so he claimed,
Is standing there insisting everything is going to be all right
If she lets it.
They are desperate words, she knows,
Him hoping the bitter end isn’t right there in front of them,
That they can grasp something, anything
A remnant of what they shared
As if their love was just a momentary, tangential vacation
In the once beautiful story of her and him,
And this reality crushes the blistering ache of her
Already bleeding heart.