Past Tense

You dream that one day there is an aisle, a bouquet, and a white dress.

You think of her, of her antics and her incredible energy, blinding and radiant, in the middle of it, most probably dancing her way through, a smile evident on her features.

You think she will -- then perhaps becomes maybe, then it becomes never.

It would have been easier if it's you running to chase after her, unnerved and unstoppable, determined to bring her back if she is willing and she is ready to fight for what you have.

Ready for anything, just like who she has always been.

But she isn't.

You believe that 'they' know better; you respect their experience and their wisdom, but this is too much. You don't want to blame, but is this what the heart is telling?

You beg, over and over. You beg her to tell you that it's done, that it's finished.

(—so that maybe this pulsating ache would dim—)

But then her presence changes; she cries and this destroys you.

She looks at you, and you look back at her wanting to deny that this is happening—

(—because the pain is too much and the choices are gone—)

—so you ache.

Her eyes meet yours and her expressions that tell otherwise—

(—but you both know better—)

—But then she can only tell you that she is thankful.

Thankful because you loved her, grateful because you were a part of her life. Her tears fall, and finally this is reality. You have become a thing of her past.

(It hurts.)

So you cry as you feel her warm hands on your cheeks, wiping away the tears like how she always does.

And you break.