For-never.

There is not a doubt in my mind that he will twist the dagger again.  On our own, he tells me that he wants a different ending, that he's hurting too and that he hates this-but tomorrow night or the next day or the day after that he will find a path to my public humiliation.  He never fails at that, after all.

In the sweet comfort of my own bed I close my eyes and see the alternative.  Beautiful blue eyes, wanting me to be his in oh so many ways.  I could hurt him so terribly; that is the thing I am perhaps most scared about.  He holds me and kisses my neck when I want to cry, tells me that It's ok to be brokenhearted, it's ok- even if the man who did it was a low-down dog.  I smile and kiss back, but how do you say that you want to be squeezed, not kissed; it's not the promise of sex that draws me back but rather the way he looks at me like I've never made a mistake in my life, I remember that look from sometime long long ago.  So, instead of accepting the crown to his kingdom I close my eyes and try to push brown-eyed pain away.

Late late late at night I lose my mind and want to let myself fall into oblivion another blue eyed angel saves me.  It's nice, not having expectations for once- seeing each other's hurt without judgment or blame.  And, he makes me laugh.  Lovely wonderful laughter that I forgot was possible.  If one person can change so dramatically from love to hateful spite, wouldn't it be possible for another to travel the opposite road, at least to friendship?  If my sins are so great that they are unforgivable, then surely I cannot judge another human based on theirs.

And I don't want love, as much as I think I do.  If it exists, I don't think it's for me.  I had my chance at sweet romance and now it's gone and I'm learning to live on my own again.  It shouldn't be too hard, it was only one quick year before he tells me the romance died away.  Nineteen years of solitude, one year of bliss, and two of slow torture.  I am no Scarlett, there will never be an Ashley or a charming Rhett in my life.  If I'm destined to lonely solitude, perhaps it's better to know at twenty-three than to keep on chasing an impossible fairytale.