These are the moments we caught in the tide—
an evening where laughter kissed the wind,
where our shadows played upon the sand,
and I looked at you as if time had stopped.

Look at me—
the woman in these frames,
the one you are hurting.
The vibrant soul who loved life,
the one who craved the fire we made together.
The friend. The lover. The one who trusted you with her body, her heart, her spirit.

I wanted nothing more than to be
both your peace and your passion,
to see the best in you when you could not see it in yourself.
Our talks, our poems, our squirrel moments... the simple magic of staring into your eyes and knowing I could have stayed there forever.
I adored you.

I am the victim here, not you.
I did not go to her—
she came to me,
with truths you thought were buried.
She knows the list;
before me, during me, after me.
Your marriage did not break on my hands, it broke on the weight of your choices.

If you lose everything,
it is the echo of your own steps.
If you are suffering,
it is the shadow of your own doing.

And still—
I tried to be your friend from the moment we met.
I gave you love, trust, understanding, compassion—
even my body—
and what did you place in my open hands?
Lies. And disease.

Yet here I am,
still offering compassion,
still offering understanding,
still praying for you each day.
Now I ask you—
what is it that you need from me?

...