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I sat there, the candle flickered orange, yellow. Orange, yellow. Extinguished by the single tear that rolled down to her costume. Picking up the plates flying into walls, smash into a million tiny pieces, like her heart. She checks her phone one last time phoning, it rings, rings, rings no answer. A glass of wine sits untouched, bubbles uplifting, rising to the sky. She runs get out of here this place, an empty suitcase thrown with the same anger onto her bed clothes thrown in every possession. Then comes the photograph. Smiling happily. She turns and throws it into the mirror which shows her running mascara make-up smeared over her face. as she collapsed to the floor in a over rush of feelings once again he had stood her up, but don't I wish this was a far fetched story created by an old lady to entertain, but he had done this again after I forgave him he did it again to me not to her TO ME!