And so he went on to take a poll, disguising his dilapidating hope as a courtesy extended to those sitting in front row seats.

All dressed for the occasion, ready to request more than an autograph - he promised a single one to whomever would shed light, offering the scalpel capable of removing (without scar ) the departure of his muse from the pages of his unaccepting heart.

Some stood quiet, others spoke under their breath, awaiting his reaction to synchronized confetti released into the air, settling at his feet and every corner of his despair.

"Perhaps, there is someone else" said a woman to his left.

Yes, there is always someone else, but she was never one to not forgive an insignificant trespass - she understood love in its raw form and would not ask for mine to fit a norm. He replied before moving on to the next confetti flake, kicking it over as if the color was not to his expectation.

Confetti flakes as those of snow
should not be swallowed whole
unless of course you settle in
the shadows and ignore your want for more.

His pen undrawn, intending to retire for the night (short of a promise to come back) he heard a voice:

"The sea cannot be his, a fisherman would know this."

Enraged, he demanded the voice come forward, repeat this abhorring claim and face the wrath of his disbelief.

The room stood silent.