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*Ivy Rose Shaw* · August 4, 2020 – 7:26 AM

Charmed to be read as a collection of notes on quidditch tactics by anyone who isn't Ivy.

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*Ivy Rose Shaw* · August 4, 2020 – 7:51 AM

Dearly Departed

Love is fleeting. This is how I honor the lost ones. Some I regret, some I don't. Some I'd gladly have back in my bed, some I'd almost rather die than touch again. Don't judge me too harshly. We all make mistakes, and mistakes are largely preferable to loneliness. Writing truthfully, I do not do well on my own. Never have. Never will.

Your Thorny Rose

*Ivy Rose Shaw* · August 4, 2020 – 8:33 AM

True Blue

'Blue' is one of my favorites to remember, though I wish affairs with her had not ended with such sourness. It is unlikely that either of us will ever overcome our pride enough to offer the apologies necessary for a reconciliation. I try not to a imagine a world where that's possible, but in the awful quiet my mind does wander. Does this mean I am still pining? Probably. I hate that I cannot rid myself of such a useless emotion.

We met four years ago on account of the Harpies. She was a fan of mine and, upon admiring her features, I had to admit the feeling was mutual. She was married at the time, but it didn't seem to bother her and I'd learned by then not to concern myself with the ethics of infidelity. She was the one with a vow to uphold, not me. I did nothing wrong in helping her break it. If not me, it would certainly have been someone else. I don't resent her for that.

Our courtship (if I can be so bold as to call it that) was a slow one by my standards. As you know, I am quite happy to take to the sheets right away on account of my impatience. Yet, with her, conversations took priority. They were nothing less than an exercise in meandering flirtation. We hung on each other's words and giggled at the innuendos as we wove them in. We met for months before we even touched. I wonder, now, if I still have the ability to wait that long.

The first time we kissed, it was she who surprised me. Not the usual way it goes. It was chaste, but carried enough intention for me to know that she meant it. It was not something to be written off as an error in judgement. When I kissed her back, I meant it too.

When we went to bed, her husband was away on business. He was away so very often. We had plenty of time. Too much. I think that was our undoing. It was too comfortable. There was too much room for me to pretend. Embarrassing to admit, but what is the point of this if not to provide myself an honest account of what happened.

Yes, I did get carried away. In her well kept house, in her warm marriage bed, it felt as though I had truly replaced the man who was actually meant to be there. When I got too close for her comfort, she reminded me of what my position actually was and I hated her for it. I got stupendously drunk and shoved at her and called her a whore, though I was absolutely no better.

Whore is such an ugly word, isn't it?

I wish I had not said that to her.

I regret that even more than putting my hands on her.

The action could be forgiven, but the word could not.

Then, she had her own words for me which I also cannot forgive.

That was the end of it right there. We have seen each other since, but we do not speak to each other. Only around or through.

She has children now, so evidently she got on with things with her husband.

I do not know how that makes me feel.

Your Wilted Rose

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