Sometimes, you don't get the girl

I've known her for years. I can still remember the dress she wore when we first met. I remember the where, the when, the why, the how. I remember how she looked, how she moved, and how my heart felt like it had been kicked in the balls.

It was love at first sight, both for me and for her. We held each other close, we pushed each other away. It was a roller coaster of fear, and excitement, and joy, and gut-wrenching stomach-churning anxiety. What it was, was fucking awesome.

But life, as they say, goes on. We came together, we fell apart. Life, time, distance, community, all conspired to keep us apart. She was bound by the ties of her life, and I, in my own way, by mine. We went our separate ways, and I still remembered her. She was the Dream. The standard others were measured by. There were enough women who hated her, not because they knew her, but because of what she was in my head.

We met again many years after. Came together as adults, not the inexperienced duo we were. And it seemed good. But it didn't last. We were from two sides of the Great Divide. It ended in promises of friendship, but nothing more.

Many years have gone by. Lives have been lived.

And yet, she haunts me still.

I found her again recently. The Internet makes the world a much smaller place than it used to be so many years ago. She's still out there. We make.. tentative contact. Personally I would like to talk to her all the time, but it seems she doesn't want to. I am sure she has her reasons, and I don't blame her for them.

From what I see, she's found someone, and things are serious. It's not like I can blame her for it can I? We both have lives to live. And I have had my own share of relationships.

But the thing is, she still makes my heart go thump. She still makes me want to hold her in my arms like I used to way back when. She makes me wish that she was still with me, that life hadn't got in our way.

I sometimes wonder if she knows that I still care for her. That I still think of her, dream of her. That I may never be completely over her. That I still have her picture in my wallet. I'm sure if she reads this, she will. And I wonder how she will feel knowing all this.

Sometimes you don't get the girl. Sometimes she is just a dream. The one that got away. Maybe she's all the more perfect for that. The dream, after all, has none of the imperfections of the reality. Reality is where life is lived, where people hurt and bleed, scream and shout. Where nothing is ever perfect. Where the hero doesn't get the girl. Where there is no resolution in the final act. And where the romantic sunset by the beach goes unseen.

But sometimes, you dream.