| revelations and regret |

And so now I know. He spoke with such indifference; he was completely matter of fact about it. I heard his resentment, his pain, his anger, his hurt. And 'I'm sorry' has expired its meaning. The wheel of time can't be spun backwards.

Is it too late to try?

***

When you’re young, love is like a candid mistress, sucking on a cigarette. You wilt under her lips, smeared with crimson promise; you willingly surrender to her sultry perfume, never mind its toxic nature; for the kiss of love, you would die.

And then you get a little older. And then you find that love has morphed into a matriach, firm and fierce; she drags her poisonous breath through an opium pipe, illcit and tempting. Sometimes, you find the verve to fight it. You see her now and you see her, in the soft light of her glory and in the glint of her dark, daunting mystery. But mostly, you still succumb.

Some days she’s a young girl still, dancing to her own wayward melody. She makes you heedy, giddy, leaving you with the spice of tangy red wine. She makes you giggle; she makes you indulgent. You think of her and you think of blue skies, sand in your toes, wind in your hair. Your hand tremble, and with child-like trust, you entwine your fingers with hers. Her grasp is never firm, but her touch chains you. It binds you into an eternal dream, where the colours rustle with gold, a spectrum of joy.

Some days she’s all woman. Alluring, but demanding. Her eyes narrow with purpose, and her voice sings with an intensity that leaves you breathless. You close into the mystery of her being, only to be disappointed; you realize she’s never quite yours, and this elusive chase turns you from predator to prey, prey to dust, and back again. You plead. You bleed. And she only shakes her head, mockingly: the same crimson smile blinding you into a scarlett obscurity.

One day she’ll get old. The lines of time will set in, bringing with it tears and cracks and the shadows of memories. She’s still powerful, a never-dying source of light in a fabled tunnel you’ve spent your life in, running running running after the echo of her footsteps. But you’re astute now, wise with the age of your own time, and shrewd with the scars she’s marked you with. You learn to let go of her hand. Her touch is still sacred, still desired – but not with the same mindless passion that once rendered you stupid, helpless. You remember her smile, red and brilliant. You remember her voice, a chaf, searing beat, ricocheting down the corridor of time. You remember her gleeful kiss, the fire of her embrace. And you remember the victims that she has bound you to, the loves lost and found – and with the peace unknown to her, you smile in return, choosing now to return her into the Pandora Box of life, choosing now to close this box, and choosing to acknowledge love can never be truly, wholly, yours.