Intermezzo.

Solitude is a strange paradox.
In it you find solace, yet because of it you are painfully reminded of the sharp stab of loneliness.
No one to wake up beside to, no one to share a heartfelt laugh with, no one to snuggle up to.

But my heart died that day, barely a fortnight past, and with it the ability to love, the urge to care and the need to elucidate along with any attendant feelings of tenderness. I could probably knife someone who annoys me without batting an eyelid right now.

Funny how the end of an intimate albeit tumultous at times six year plus relationship should evoke emotions no greater than jaded resignation and detatched contemplation. But the memories remain.

And no matter how I resist or turn, in my mind they continue to burn. Forgetfulness is not a balm for the heartless for the cold of heart neither forgive nor forget. But I do not seek convenient amnesia or its fickle embrace for to remember is to live, a silent penance I shall pay for the rest of my life

A testament to love found and lost, of laughs and tears, a folly six years in the making.