The tale of us is at an end
and now all that is left
Is a sad, slow denouement
the dance of love bereft.
All the crises have been resolved
the plot, once thick, has thinned.
Our sets dismantled, stage empty,
because we’ve reached the end.
Our love was but a fantasy
of rainbows and moonbeams,
A dream rent by reality;
loves’ seldom what it seems.
The curtain on our play has closed,
now we play other parts;
Picking up the bits and pieces
left of our shattered hearts.