On dit que tu te maries

On dit que tu te maries,
tu sais que j'en vais mourir."

Somebody sent me through snail mail an announcement of your wedding. To disambiguate my distaste for you as a harridan and to let on an impression that I thought of your matrimony was just a bagatelle, and my once affection for you was a vernal error, I dug up an old photo of mine when my "beauty" was in its prime and emailed it to you. Then I went out for a walk. 

The air was bristling with winds and chilly, with a faint tang of burning logs and raucous twang of seagulls. The sea was glaucous and gray with waves busily breaking into foam. I stood at the beach, looking out to the sea, and I felt in the hollow of my solitariness the unending syllables of the sweet dark dampness of the most rumpled of small flowers. And the flutters and effluvia of that gray day filled me with an unredeemed melancholy. I still remember the day you said you loved me like it was yesterday. We were standing on the second floor of the college building, near the railing and looking at the leaves falling off the trees in the yard below us and fluttering in the winds. The dry season was in full swing. It was late afternoon. Our classes were long over. We were shooting the breeze. You asked me what would become of us. I sighed and replied that somehow I felt in my bones you would make me sad and suffer for a long, long time. You retorted that I was talking rot and that you were very much affected by our daily talks. I queried, "For sure?" To that you answered, "Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours."

I am not going to share this part of me with you. I am just confining it to this cyberspace. The photo I emailed was a reminder of me, of us, when we were young and green and not yet tainted by greed and anger. I am not really angry at your decision. After all, we have been drifted apart for such a long time. Anything that is left of us is this lingering strange desire of mine to dissect and analyze a love that could not possibly last.