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The late January wind stings my face with a cold rebuke, a reminder of having fallen in love at the wrong time, with the right person. 

It is a cruel trick to allow the heart to wander on its own, lost in a maze of unexplained emotions, attached with the bitter regret of weakness.

It is the measure of lovers in a triangle, when you find yourself looking in the mirror, uncertain of who else may be standing behind you. 

It is easy to find love squandered by an unfair bargain negotiated when the price demanded exceeds the return with no promise of payment. 

When everything you thought had been settled is turned around, and now you can’t find your way back even as a practiced escape artist. 

There is silence as petals of pure whiteness begin to drift from the sky, obscuring the twisted path I walk in the empty park. 

The evening darkness encroaches upon every thought until it is too late to realize the unseen hazards of love as the path ahead disappears.

I grasp the meaning of being in love as a mystery; a confluence of mostly random circumstances and events, sometimes never duplicated. 

The hour deepens as the arm of night encircles me, my persistent companion, ready to welcome the darkness that cloaks the night.

Lovers stranded in a triangle are always confronted with the impossible as victims, ready to surrender to the inevitable unfair outcome.

There are never any guarantees when lovers form a triangle, only the certain mathematical probability of it not ending well.  

I still try not to feel your presence inside the room, but at the same time I pretend to feel you slip between the cold sheets.

All the nights seem to linger longer than they are needed, and now I understand how it all slipped away so quickly. 

We had become strangers to each other; trapped in the web of our transgressions with the unforgiving disappointment of love in a triangle.
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