She was the lightning that danced across his night skies.
He was her rock when her waves broke on the shores.
She was the rock he broke himself against.
She was the mystery he couldn't quite solve.
He was the metronome that kept her in time.
He was the muse of her every rhyme.
She was his gasp of oxygen in a burning room.
Loving her was watching the autumn leaves fall.
Loving him was finding the light and the end of the tunnel was just paint.
Leaving her was cutting out a tumor he had grown to love without anesthesia.
Leaving him was pushing the red button that saved the town, but not herself.
Their love was the revelation of the fine line between passion and cliche.
They were two comets hurling themselves toward the sun in a hot, lusty fury,
But, above all, they were real.