She left in the darkness of night without a whisper or touch of her hand. The scent of her raven hair, the soft caress of her lips, her exquisite red dress the only things I remember.
The bed empty of her warmth, the sheets carelessly thrown aside the only sign of our passionate tryst. Withered rose petals littered the floor, a fading memory of happier times when we made sweet prose together. The petals turning brown along the edges, barren and parched like the void in my soul.
Her siren song of promise fading into the last sorrowful notes of a concerto in E minor as I reach out to caress her face only to find a hint of her perfume lingering on the pillow beside me.
She warned me a time would come when she would slip away, leaving me barren of creativity, empty of inspiration. Her promise to return someday echoing in my head like a forlorn wind wailing at the loss of life.
My journal lay forgotten, a landscape desolate and abandoned by her quickly fading memory. With a partially finished script in hand, I rise from our haven of fertile declarations to return to my desk. I search the discarded pages of desire in hopes of finding the joy hidden among the lines of text; the tattered bits of a pencil in my hand.
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