To watch her walk away into the night, sad, alone and with all ties to you severed is painful enough. To watch her walk away into the night arm in arm with someone else, happy, contented and with all ties to you severed is nothing short of torture.
I spend countless hours roaming her street, glancing expectantly at her dimly lit windows, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of her blessed silhouette against the lavender curtains. And when it does appear, all is bliss. At least until his profile appears alongside hers, ranging slowly towards her. When both the shadows merge, I close my eyes. It is indeed torture.
Then I open them again, walk purposefully to her gate, and open it. His bike is parked next to her moped. One swing and both the headlamps shatter into a thousand pieces. Love may be tender and fragile, but a baseball bat is not.