It comes without warning.
A sharp inhalation that cuts,
jagged edges scraping by.
You never wanted this.
Never knew that it was an option.
"But what about the past? Our past?"
That's just it.
It's past.
It's all gone. Sand sifted.
Every once in awhile you can pick out a memory.
One grain of sand.
While the rest fall through silently,
weighed down with regret.
It's past.
I know. I know how she feels.
I will know more
than how she feels.
More than she will
ever feel.
I've been there.
I was just there.
It doesn't matter.
It's past.
Burnt and ashen,
my heartstrings float
on the pages of a
lovestory
that burn brightly
until that
final flame,
is past.
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