He turned her into literature,
As he often would.
Poetry echoing the memory of her smile,  her laugh, her eyes.

It had been a month and she burned brighter in his mind then ever before.
Like a trail of photographs tracing through a storm of thoughts, always revolving around her.

If he was Earth she was his Sun.
She brought life, she brought light.
And as he sat by his desk, he thought;

The poor poet, alone again.