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
