The starlight struck hot on his head,
This time the breeze less gentle.
Gray stones rooted in trees stead,
Somber ground where lovers tread,
The living mental,
The sane dead.

And just before he refilled the land,
Cementing her beneath Earth's floor,
He interlaced her torpid hand,
One last time, nevermore.

The man returned to his empty address,
A note perched atop his bed,
Amidst his morbid mental mess,
He unfolded, and read:

"Remember when we first met?
That small cafe you frequented to write,
And time was small and swift to forget,
Falling victim to each other and the night.

That was what wasting time was for,
My heart and head acutely reeling,
Unequivocal of your allure.
I swore myself to that feeling,
Forevermore.

Now I pen this letter proving me a liar.
Oh baby, the irony of
Being jaded by what I most admired.
Too perfect you were -
Counter-intuitive in that
Not enough was left desired.

I knew this time had come to pass,
The sand has traversed my hourglass."

He glanced up from the paper and just before
The tears sent his thoughts to drown,
He trickled out a sentence more...
"Our love is inherently profound."