The time had come for the letter to make it’s way out of his pocket and into her hand. He waited anxiously, checking the time over and over – everyone who was coming had finally arrived and she was not there. He assumed something else came up, he hoped it was not another guy; and so he would have to be patient, a virtue he always hated.

… and for the life of him he could not understand just what was on her mind. Just the attempt of trying to understand made the voice inside his head scream; but he was compelled – perhaps by curiosity, perhaps by foolish ambition or most likely pure love – nonetheless, he would not lose her. In his coat pocket he carried an envelope, within it a letter where his heart took the form of words. He would give it to her when the time was right – maybe it was now, maybe it was tomorrow, or maybe it was never.

He always found that his pen was mightier than the words he spoke, and in knowing this he fell back on it whenever he was weak for it was the only thing that could save him. As he always did in such times, he was doing yet again – sitting all alone in complete silence except for the sound of the pen furiously working it’s magic on the paper before him; spilling his heart out once more. The words were readable yet arcane as only he could make sense of what was scribed upon the paper. It became harder and harder to go on, all he knew was sad endings.

The room began to spin as he grasped onto his thoughts and scrambled to record them all, but the harder he fought the more and more the room spun. He felt like his heart had been torn out of his chest, a conspiracy to destroy him had finally succeeded. He closed his eyes and tried his hardest to make it all stop but to no avail. A piece of him had been torn away, never to be put back again. Just one more piece, but this was a much larger one and he had been slowly falling apart for a long time. Now he was just a broken shell, dizzy and alone.

His life was his greatest work of art; many looked at it up close and saw all the beautiful colors and strategic strokes of the brush. If only they would have taken a step back and looked at the chaos that was before them, when the whole canvas was viewed instead of just sections. He played many roles, and did them all well. He was not like the rest and nothing anyone could say would convince him of anything else. He found inspiration in people, but in one more than any – she was his muse; his reasons; his creativity. He loved her more than anything in this world – she shot him in the heart and now he’s gone; a poet, an artist, a genius – no more.