Born Of Regret

We stared at that sunset, wordless, content. It was the most beautiful sunset I had ever witnessed,

only to be rendered more potent for her being there. I remember her eyes, so mesmorizing, captivating.

I remember the playful twinkle, which would brighten, very briefly, when she blinked. The air was salty

but fresh, and perhaps had made our breating a little deeper. A little more deliberate. A little more memorable.

The hills of grass where we sat, above the beach and before the ocean, ebbed and flowed with the breathes

of wind that twisted around us. If one lost themselves in thought, it would be easy to imagine swaying forth

and back on the swelling sea. The sand below, in random patches, like some quilt work sewn together by threads

of yellow and long grass, made by something omniscient, with an eye for design and beauty. Little scraps of lustre

in the fading light, like a hundred eyes gazing back upon beauty. A day of perfection. One that would never end

in my mind, yet remains a reminder of something, someone, that ended so abrupt and ended too early. So desolate,

like the patchy beach, a myriad of realted images strewn about like a deck of magician cards carelessly handled.

She was perfect. She was perfection and I could see it then and remember it now, and am amazed and honoured to

have been able to look upon that perfection. Hold it, cherish it. I was allowed to look upon it, gaze at it,

if only fleetingly. It stung my eyes then, with a pain of paradise, a pain from paradise, one meant to tattoo

the reflection, though imperfect, upon the viewer, upon me. Yet now that reflection served as a source for a

deeply less bearable pain, borne of something less perfect than even the reflection.

Borne of regret.