mirima

When I was a little girl...I remember looking up to him. I remember following in his giant footsteps, and adoring every inch of him. He stood so much taller than me, and I was his shadow. I would have followed him wherever he went. Every Sunday after church, we'd walk among the graves, stopping now and then, but always a constant, never ending conversation. I loved our talks, our walks, the things we explored together. He knew me as a little girl, and I knew him as a wonder. When he brought his girlfriend to church with him, I remember it was the last time I saw him for years....and I felt replaced. He broke my heart, and it was the first time my heart was ever broken. I remember sitting in my mom's car, all alone, letting the tears flow so heavily, dripping on my dress. I never wanted to feel loves painful sting ever again.
A few years ago I met him again. This time as a man, and I a woman. I knew, once again, I was so deeply in love, and wanted none other than him. We shared intimacy, and what I thought was love. But it was fleeting, and I met others. He wanted so much more than I could give him, but I didn't realize where my heart was directing me until it was too late.
It wasn't until recently that I knew, very much, that I wanted nothing more than to be with him. And it wasn't until recently that my heart, once again, was broken. And it is continuously broken while I watch him with the new love of his life. He no longer wants me, no longer longs for my touch. I feel myself sinking deeper into this painful sorrow, and I all I do is stand by and watch. Its like a knife...a knife that plunges deeper and deeper into my heart. And there's nothing I can do about it.
So thus is a story of love...a story that never ends. And with love, always comes a broken heart. So is the moral of this story.
The end?