The Last Time With Mary Jane

The last time I saw Mary Jane she was crying inside a jeepney, displaying her anguish for all the passengers to see.   She had her hands bunched on her thighs as she tried to rein in the tears that had been gushing forever.  She had already broken all the rules of decency she had set for herself, had crossed the boundaries of begging, and had been tethering on the realm of the desperate for quite some time.  She had loved and she had loved and she had loved.   

Before boarding the jeepney, she madly grabbed my hand and pressed it to her chest. 

"Feel my heart," she said, "it's broken."

Those were the last words I heard her speak.

Three nights ago, I saw her picture on the internet.  She was resplendent in a flowery orange dress.  She had the smile of spring, the kind of smile that expects great things to come.  She was leaning  against a wall, her left hand raised perpendicular to her side encompassing the smooth surface.  Her head tilted, she looked right into the camera, daring anyone who would see her picture to look into her eyes. 

She had found love.

And those eyes, those very same eyes that used to make my heart jump everytime, are now looking at somebody else– somebody who looks at her in the way that every woman wanted to be looked at by the men they love.  The same look that I have never been able to give her, no matter how hard I tried.  

In my mind, I kissed her eyes goodbye and at the same time uttered a silent apology knowing that even if I'm only imagining it, I no longer have the right.

Goodbye Mary Jane, I'm glad you've found the love that you so desperately sought.