Redemption

This is not a sentimental piece.
His eyes aren't as blue as I remember, and his grin is more lopsided.
He's still charming but somehow though I see this it doesn't give me butterflies anymore.
I look at him, not with disgust or anger or hurt, but with a cool calculated assessment.
He talks about you, darling.  He talks about long-ish blond hair and sparking blue eyes.  We both talk about you.  You are my person, but to him you are the one who got away, and always will be.
I think you know this.
Someday maybe, three-five-ten-fifteen years down the road I will be dancing at a wedding, your wedding.  Maybe you will marry that boy, or maybe you will marry the smart sensitive boy you are with now, or maybe you will marry some other one who has yet to waltz into your life.
This I know:
Whatever boy you marry, I hope he looks at you just the same way this one does.  He is broken, we are all broken, but in his own broken way he cares.
This is cruel to write, It's tactless and I should not say it I know.  But.
In losing my own beautiful brown eyed love I have to have something to believe in.
I am glad I saw him, I am glad I have heard him talk about you in this way.
I believe in redemption and I believe in second chances.  Perhaps he is not the devil, but he is not what I want, not anymore.  He is not my puzzle piece. 
Sometimes I wonder who will be at my wedding, sitting next to me as you look lovely in green (blue?) down the line.  Sometimes I wonder who will be next to you at yours.
Either way, I think we both have good options.

I believe in fairy tales, yes.  And we are going to get our happily ever afters.