A Pique of Passion

As a younger man I thought I was in love. My love was treacherous, however, and I was left with a heart crumpled like a fragile piece of glass in a clenched fist.

As an artist I thought I had captured a history of my love that would last through the ages and that I would smile upon beatifically in my declining years.

I destroyed the images of my love in a moment of anger and madness. I did not even have the energy or spirit to separate her from images to which she had no claim.

I have known love since then and know that what I knew was not love then. Now I am saddened, not by the loss of my love, but by the loss of the images (not of my alleged love, but of the rest) that I destroyed in a pique of passion.