And then he died. He used to walk in the lights of the streetlights. Searching for meaning. Searching for her. He'd come out at night with pen and paper and write poems for her. Words she never thought he'd say. Things she'd never thought he'd feel for her. But he did. And when she read them, she too wandered. Reading the words, hoping to find the right streetlight. Hoping to find him pen and paper in hand. And she'd hoped to hear him say the words he'd written. Tell her how he felt about her. The words she longed to hear from his beautiful lips. In his soothing voice. And she'd cry. And hug him. And she'd feel at home again. Her heart would leap from her chest and back into his hands. And then life would be okay again. But he died. The writer. The poet. The words. The feelings. They all died. And not the permanent kind of death that resulted in Black clothing and a rainy day at the cemetery. But the kind of death where the person you once knew dies and becomes someone else. Someone you do not know. Someone who doesn't wander out into the street in search of words to say. But someone who words are lost on. Whose feelings feel forced when said. When love falls like a burden from the lips she wanted. In the voice that use to bring peace. They only brought wrath and destruction. And it wasn't his fault. Maybe the poet who wrote for her was always destined to roam the streets, never finding her, and ultimately breathing his last breath when the street lights went out. And a different person would walk back inside, never to go back to the streetlights again. To leave pen and paper in the hands of his old self who lay breathless in the dimly lit streetlights. But she still roams. Keeping old letters. Old words. Clinging onto the hope to find him. But he isn't out there anymore. He will become a new person. Maybe someone who actually speaks his feelings for someone else. Because the poet of written word was hers. And the new him will be for someone else. And maybe that's better. Because roaming the streets in search of her wasn't good for him. And speaking his words for someone else would be good for him. And maybe she would take up writing. Write poems for him, to then burn for spells in hopes of healing. From the loss, healing from the words she longed to hear but never did. They always roamed alone. And what kind of life is that. What kind of reality is written. Maybe she'd learn to hate words. And grow cold to poetry. But until then, she still goes out when the sun goes down. And wanders street after street. Heart growing more heavy and painful after each empty streetlight. Realization and hatred of who she is weighing down like sandbags. Why would he be there looking for her. After who she was to him. What she did to him. Still Hoping maybe one day he'll be there, forgive her. Knowing he won't be. Forevermore.
