The Death of Love

[DamedEscrime]

It had been three weeks since she had heard from him. Tears streamed down her face as she realized that indeed he really had not loved her at all.

It had taken her a full year to say back to him that she loved him. She had tried to be cautious, not wanting the pain in her heart that she had predicted would come.

The holidays had been extremely rough on her and facing them alone only added to her fears and sadness. Illness had struck and along with it an unknown...uncertain enemy. She had wanted to share all this with him, but she did not even know where he was.

His last message was vague, but held some small promise. Surely he would contact her somehow. At least let her know that he was thinking of her....that he still loved her. God knows, she thought of him every day. How could she not?

She carried a photo of the two of them in her wallet . Another one....special because he had given it to her graced the dresser in her bedroom. And there was one more, another in a silver heart shaped frame of the two on her nightstand. To that last one she had dutifully lit a small green candle each night as he requested, wished he would come to her and then blew it out as she said goodnight to him wherever he was.

She thought of the few times they had had together. How wonderful he had made her feel. Those were the times she felt most alive.

The candle is no longer lit ands the photos are put away. The one and only letter he ever wrote is tucked away with one she never sent to him a year ago. In it she had said to him. "It would be tragic to pin all our hopes on each other and then have our hearts dashed to pieces, needlessly."

She did not wish to hear from him again now that she had begun to put the hurt behind her. She did not want false hope and promises any longer. And she prayed that she would be able to guard her heart more wisely in the future. She just wanted to get on with her life.

[DamedEscrime]

Like A Garden

Love, like a garden, blooms when tended by soft, sweet hands,
When delicately pruned and shaped,
When looked upon by tender eyes,
When tasted as the first fine fruit of the season,
and savoured as a fresh spring flower.

Left alone and unwatered, the hope of love grows hard and dry, cracked under the heat of despair.
Weeds of longing and lonliness grow, choking tender thoughts.
Small predators, the mites and slugs, slowly suck the life from it.
While vermin devour the last bit of love's hope and trust.

[Iwant2bafencer]

Dame, tell me you didn't write that so I don't feel like such a crapy writer. I'm so jelious.

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Carpe Diem
Ad Asha