by Matt Triewly

May is November. Howling winds and bleak. Then I see THEM. They're walking up; I'm walking down. It is ‘her’ with her daughter, the daughter that should have been mine. Well, at least in name.

There's a flicker of recognition. A pretence of not seeing. From all of us to none of us.

Then they're gone. We've passed.

I loved her longer and more deeply, than any before. Than any since. And any to come. Maybe.

Bereft of her, empty is my existence, lonely my life.

Oft, I dream of love not lost to greet the day with flooded eyes.

Regrets, regrets, regrets.

Why, oh why, did I betray her to just betray myself?

To the counsel of my heart I listened not. Too late, too late. She is gone.

Chestnut hair tumbling onto shoulders bare and freckled. Button nose and big blue eyes.

A poignant memory of a single red rose on Lover's Day.

I love her. Simply and forever.

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