So only one could know when it arrives this last chance that the other grants to us before turning forever... the page of a beautiful love. Oh! as we would have avoided the error which was fatal in our heart.

Too many people think that patience is an unbounded virtue.

Too many beings in love think that the other will always like in spite of all that they can do to him to endure... not to say to suffer. Too many sure them, they play with time in the name of the feelings without realizing that the last spark is with two gleams to die out.

Blunders are made, one repeats in what however wounds that or that that one likes so much... and one wait, a such child, to be forgiven of its faults with impunity until the end of time.

One says oneself unconsciously: " Bah! it passed sponge at the time of a last winter, it closed the eyes not later than yesterday, then, why to make some to me?" Serious error of judgment, bus always comes the moment when nothing any more will buy forgiveness over which one lies down as on a bed of pinks.

With each misdemeanour, it is however a petal which falls from the daisy, but imbu of its capacity on the heart of the other, one does not even see at which point the emotions become lighter as the mud reverses.

The last chance, it is perhaps that which you will take tomorrow by thinking that once more, a tender kiss will come to erase the reproached acts. They is so underhand the love, especially when the tolerance made the turn of it.

It thus happens that a beautiful morning, as usual, with certainty, one excuses oneself once again in search of a discharge. One goes until claiming that " that still will pass " and that it or that it will be able to understand what it or that it accepted too a long time. One lies down anxious vis-a-vis with the made error, but one crosses the fingers and one put once again on the sharing of a future.

Moreover, isn't this always with the loved being that one swears not to start again more? Isn't this in this heart which one entrusts his sorrow and his anguish? When hot soup is felt, a last deferment is beseeched. And when the other accepts with a smile of kindness, one is proud to escape a sign to have still gained.

Then one day, stupidly, without opinion, the least regret, the other says to us that it is finished. One starts, one beseeches, one promises, one goes even until usually swearing... comme, but the most beautiful poem of Voltaire cannot however bring back to be so expensive to it. A bouquet of violets, some tears, two or three letters... and nothing, plus nothing revives the ground too badly sown.

The last chance, it was that which one had taken before the heart of the other grants a delivery. It was thought well that it was the penultimate one. But not, it was the last and the insult moreover was to be our last prayer. The worst in a history of love, it is that one knows that early or late, all has suddenly died out through evil liked.

It is to be thus played with the other that one comes from there to lose oneself, oneself. One reproached him his mistrust, fault of being unable to trust him. If the heart is sometimes without exit, kindness has its limits. Of course that it or that it will have as badly as you when comes the hour from the departure, but another heart will gently come to deposit a balsam on the wound.

And you in all that? Sad portrait isn't this?

Because you like it sincerely? Because you did not try anything to back up this expensive being for which you live? Too much late and so much worse. It is to be played with its last chance that very often one dies... failing to not have been able to protect his happiness!