that love she thought was meant to be
 went sailing, and did not return;
the life that they were going to build's
 so distant that she can't discern
 its contours, as the other boats
 go placidly (or seemingly) --
now books are all she has to love
 and that love comes but fleetingly.

for once, the stories came alive,
 but now, they're dead upon the page
(although some nights she smells the salt
  and sees the play more than the stage) --
but then, the water sang their song
 and sunset was a thing she'd feel --
 before love up and sailed away
 and fiction died for lack of 

 what was real