As I sit on a bench in the garden, the summer sun beating down and warming my skin, I pretend that I don’t have a care in the world but even now, months later, I still think about him. My beloved, taken from my bosom, stolen right out from under me by that big-nosed, big-hipped witch. He should have been mine but my father is of no importance, nor does he have any riches. Cruel fate.
But I know he still loves me. He tells me as much in the little notes he leaves for me in our spot, out by the old Elm Tree. I live for those notes. His sweet words simutaneously lifting and breaking my heart. The days I receive them mean those will be the nights I cry the hardest. But every tear is well deserved as I think about them, in their home, eating at their table, making love on their bed, knowing that it should be me instead.
But it doesn’t matter because I know that at the height of their love making, it will be me that he thinks about. It will always be me that he thinks about, his beloved, his Lilith, forever.