jml297

I know he is waiting for me. Punctuality matters to him, and any delay causes irritation. But I cannot go. Not yet. My reflection is frozen, hands poised above my head as I stare at my face. Eyes smiling yet sad.

I know this cannot last, that these stolen moments are transient, like the love he says he has for me.

I am wearing the blouse he bought for me, the silk as soft as a lover’s caress. The colour softens my face, bringing a pink blush to my cheeks. I see the gold bangle, a gift from another man, from another life. It is a reminder of a love that was lost, like this one will be.

In moments like this I wonder what it is that he sees in me. He speaks of my artistic soul, my measuring eye. And this is true enough. But what he cannot see is my restless heart. He seeks commitment. He wants promises of fidelity and faithfulness that are not within me. What he sees is the surface, and not the soul. I love him, in my way, but not with all of my heart and mind.

My lips tighten, and I know that I will end it. I will end it today and set him free. There will be others, but ultimately none will capture my lost heart.

This was written to a prompt at my local writing group. Postcard: self-portrait, Marjorie Watson-Williams (Paule Vezelay).

Photo: heart shape