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Poets could write all they wished, They could string together words of beauty and soul. Lines of feelings put into letters on pages.
But no honeyed verses could ever truly grasp what a lost heart was.
A gaping hole where all love was held. Now with nowhere to go it spilled onto the stone floor. A beautiful deep dark red liquid staining the marble stands and walls, painting a mural of lose and pain for all to see.
What could one do once they lost it, Once their heart had been ripped out of their ribcage? Fight for it back then Weep and Mourne over the bloodied and sore fingers left from the feeble attempts?
One would never learn. Stories of tragedies to warn children of the twins, love and lose. They came hand in hand and never left eachothers sides. The more care one holds the more suffering to come.
And now they were leaving.
Love was leaving. Two halves of a heart.
Lose was on the way. Words sharper than a blade.
Weren't the gods cruel? A prophecy to come of his death. And he was to sail to his grave.
Would patrcolus mourne him and come back to his other lover's side? Or would the pain be too great to bear?
What to do then? Maybe follow suit. To lose half a heart is a burden of illness, but illness could be withstood. To lose a whole heart is a curse of sure plague. That, is a story with a sure ending. A book known all too well.
Standing on the shore, the skin around the nails torn, liquid love watering the sand below. Two halves of a heart on a ship. Nothing left to do now but wait. Wait until the news came and the underworld opened it's arms for yet another soul, a lost lover looking for a reunion.
What bittersweet thing love was. What cruel fate lose would be.