“Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly, then your love would also change.” ~William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
The moon lingered near the horizon, enormous and beautiful surrounded by a hundred million stars when her voice permeated my dreams.
In truth, the memory of love satisfies the soul the way sweet dreams settle the mind, and sleep comforts the body.
There is an echo to heartbreak, however, that shatters time. Time is both relevant and irrelevant at this sad juncture, for it feels as though it is lost, and as though it stands still.
In the case of the former, it is because I live in the past with memories of her, and I think of the memories we could be making now if she were still here. In the case of the latter, it is because I don’t want to experience another moment without her, and so the notion of time being at a standstill is to await her return.
Though, I am convinced this will never happen given that she has from the realm of my dreams and into the shadows of dreams that belong to someone else.
Perhaps that was the magic trick, and love was nothing more than an illusion. A lie which I lived for much longer than I even deserved, but how can I permit myself to believe that?
After all, we started a life together in a sea of opposition and flourished amid the waves of hypocrisy that crashed against us. Nothing stood in our way as we laid our foundation. No one deterred us from each other as we fell deeper in love. During our era of affection we made plans, we made mistakes, and we made love.
Oh, what a sweet love it was, too.
The kind of love poets write about, but seldom experience. The two of us poets who defied the fate of unrequited love. We rhymed without reason, because our hearts had reasons that no logic could comprehend.
She was my muse for the better part of my life. She remains my muse now. Drawing out of me my inner most thoughts and feelings. They spill on the page like an ink jar knocked over. The blood of my heart stained her purity. My tears bleed into the fibers of the paper and leave the scent of what once was to linger for her breath alone.
Though I no longer cry as often as I did, I still do shed a tear at random times throughout the day and night. Not long drawn out sobs, but short bursts of emotion where our memories leave me in the form of minute storms.
The clouds dissipate almost as quickly as they gathered, so as to not obstruct the moon when she lingers into my dreams again.
Felix Alexander Writer 