Serendipity has marred my impression of your love. Let us find a quiet corner, perhaps a simple spot under the oak tree in your backyard and we can figure out what went wrong and where the mistakes stopped being excusable. Perhaps we will find lies in our history, misspoken truths and unsettled metaphors in our complacent demise. Or perhaps we will discover the vast ridge of facetious felonies aimed to alter the course of faltering promises that we tumbled over each time you brought me flowers. That first time you picked the yellow daisies out yourself so thoughtfully, I plucked the petals and saved the dried leaves as bookmarks for irrelevant anniversaries we never celebrated. Yes, I respectfully disagree. Love is still love when it is found, whether broken or mended, stiff or pliable into whatever you want it to be. It is larger than you and me, and yet, within you and me. Perhaps I shall still marry you someday, but it is unimaginable to me that we will be friends. What happens next, I will record unfaithfully in a diary and pen paltry promises to never break your heart again.