Through the rivers and the rain
   My emotions seep

No matter how far I reach
   How quiet I be
      Or how fervently I wish
      For this condensated heart to dry

Beneath stars and moonlight vain
   I stay
      Locked in the garden of perpetual being
         Without your warmth of certain meaning

And when the new morning comes
   With the quiet thought
      I realize what I had always ought

That I cannot seem to make you mine
   Regardless of the place or time

Alstroemeria, Southern-rooted watcher of the skies,
Angel tongues of Peru, with your ******-blushed annunciation
Or Incan-hued sacrificial fire.
So much like the moon tongues of all rivers in first frost or first harvest.  

Like first love, first death is the truest form,  
And blooms in scorn of all its many-mirrored rivers to come.

Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.  
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.

The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…

The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.

Yesterday,
You were the glacier
that fed the rivers in my eyes
Today,
You are the sea -
kissing the horizon with guile
Tomorrow,
You'll be nothing more
than a speck in the sky

Just as water runs, so does he.
He can't be contained, like a river running to a waterfall. Even with all his strength and power, he can't help but choose the path he is on. All I was to him was simply the dam to restrain his natural stride. He does as he wants, not needing to have an excuse. It's just nature, isn't it? He's the river and I'm the waterfall.
Falling for his guise, hoping that I'll run back into him soon enough.