A love story

Misery. The woman is a curse.
She who loves with fierce loyalty
but cannot be loved for long.

Everything. The man is simply everything.
He is grace and glory, a gentleman with goodness
far above her disaster.

But the stars, they spoke.
So he loved her. It was beautiful.
So she loved him. It was beautiful.
They began a romance with words that sang between them,
bonding souls before bodies.

He loved her.
She loved him.
And they loved like the stars did shine.

Then he began to know her.
The pieces. The pile.
Then he saw her as the pieces and the pile.
No longer the dream. The desire.
Not as the beauty. The one.
The woman was a curse.
He saw her.

Suddenly, the stars spoke only to her and when they did
they poured over her with dreams of him that the rain delivered, mocking her sadness with their cool grey pieces of his love lost.

The one she loved more than even love could understand.

And it  rained.
It fell.
It fell over her.