And the end of this story is here, or past...I just don't see a compromise or hope of spring breaking through this ice. I don't know. Maybe it's best to not say anything and keep working, working at something, working at anything to keep myself from noticing the hurt still pulsing inside. I'm a writer, though, so....

Here's one she will never read:

I've discovered the end of a rainbow,
But it wasn't what I expected.
Not in the least.
My muse has died,
Faded to dust,
And that little voice echoes to me
"Be brave,
And be strong,
And run, run, run!"

She lives.
She runs through my blood.
Makes the color in my eyes deeper,
And falls to a whisper
When I'm about to sleep.

I can't understand any of it,
Only feel,
For the time I spent in her presence
Felt infinite,
And so it goes on
In my heart,
In my breath,
In every syllable of expression.

She's gone,
Faded to dust,
And I keep hearing
"Run, run, run!"