Written on 26 February 2019
I came here with him. Several times.
Paradise.
The first time we saw that sunset together, our first time away, we stood in silence, holding hands, in awe. We happened to be on the beach when the sun was going down.
We told each other we loved each other, and as cheesy as it sounds, it was special. So special.
Three years later we were back, but we were still young and still desperately in love. He put together a picnic with champagne and sandwiches he'd asked the maid to put together. And we snuggled up under the blanket, and as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon he pulled out a ring.
And we came back three more times. Always happy. Always in love. Our lives outside of those moments became more complicated, more dramatic. Redundancies, family bereavements, children, or lack thereof.
But those moments. Always perfect. Always perfect.
And now, years later, he's back home with her and them, and I'm back here with ghosts.
And as the sun reliably dips once more I try to let the oranges and blues and pinks envelope me. But, honestly, I just feel sad. This view, this sunset, is no longer for me.