an echo

She loved him, she really did. She knew she'd been a fool to believe, but some part of her wanted to believe. Wanted to be a fool.

I see her trying. Trying so hard to relive that laughter, that love. Remind herself of his tenderness, perhaps that wild spontaniety that had never failed to make her happy. She remembers alright, she can picture herself laughing silly, smiling as if the moon shone silver-blue for her alone, like the stars were winking at her.
But she can't feel the laughter. Or the love. And that makes her feel uneasy, nauseated.

Unsettled, she looks past the benches, the trees and the sky. She remembers alright. I've seen her like that often, and I've never understood what she's looking for, or at. I hope she sees it, finds it soon.
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An echo, as the title says. Something I wouldn't have put up on the blog if I hadn't seen my friend repeating my mistake. An anonyomous wail let out while hiding behind a pronoun. I doubt she'll hear it, unless I make her.

The powerlessness, of watching someone you love walk straight in the arms of a living disaster. Knowing you can't stop them. Knowing that they'll have to get hurt to realise, to not do it again. Knowing that you did it more than once, and you can't blame them because you're still one of those hopeful asses who continue to believe in that unfathomable concept of love and the fact that relationships can work.
Y'know, this isn't optimisn. It's foolery.
Argh.