He wrote beautiful stories with no basis in reality,
tales that massaged hearts trapped in loneliness,
but did nothing to ease our pain,
maybe because his pain and my pain were much the same.
Still, I remained enthralled, awe bordering on love,
and when he died holding a stolen piece of my heart
it was in exchange for extraordinary words,
for our separate souls had become one and the same.
©November 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne