The tears falling onto the fragile pages of my beaten sketchbook

Make for a better story than I could ever write.

A mournful story with a passionate hook,

That of two lovers on a starry night.

One lover leads himself to loving her

With more love than Romeo’s heart could hold.

She leads herself to trusting so sure,

With more confidence than Lincoln’s truth once told.

He held her close so tight and near,

His arms were strong and unmovable.

She knew he could take away all of her fear.

With just one touch, her sadness was removable.

But she heard he had told a lie,

More lies than many could tell.

He told her without her, he’d die.

But she knew she didn’t know him that well.

He gave her a promise, promises so many.

She promised him the same, and the same again.

But she pondered over the honesty, if any.

If he would ever keep his promises, if when.

He knew she was the one, so he thought.

So he said he would never let her go.

He wondered if she loved the same, or if not.

She was unsure of her affection, so neither would know.

She had waited her whole life for “the one”.

The one she knew she shared a love, meant to be.

The one she would take a bullet from a gun.

The one who every morning she wanted to see.

So she took a chance on the love she saw.

She gave her heart to him, as he wanted.

But with the love, her heart wounds became raw.

With unsettled memories, she was haunted.

So she became ungrateful,

He didn’t know what was wrong.

Of the love that she had, she was hateful.

She thought she could be so strong.

Eventually, in his lies he was caught.

She knew he would have to leave her.

She became unsettled and distraught.

She felt the ground was caving underneath her.

In his silent serenity, he sat alone.

In the serenity that soon became a cell.

He thought over and over, of the true love he had shown.

The true love that was true enough to tell.

He wanted so badly to see her face,

He was sure he could set everything right.

He knew, that sadness he could replace.

When he held her, all through the night.

But outside, in the cold she would freeze still,

In the coldness of her cold, cold heart.

Sitting at the top of a snowy hill,

She knew that the ending was about to start.

With her Happiness of metal in her hand,

She sat on the chair of stone.

She had taken all she could stand.

And she would rid herself of love on her own.

The bottle of warmth, she cracked.

She felt the hot burn her inside.

She knew it could make up for all she lacked.

She smiled, as through the clear night sky, she flied.

She held her Happiness to her head,

And she calmly and surely spun the barrel.

She barely felt the chill of the lead,

As the crimson Russian Roulette splattered over her apparel.

With Happiness in her hand,

And her warmth laying beside her,

She knew they would soon understand,

As she flew away, with dark angels to guide her.