This is not a time for poetry, she said.
Stepping into a shaft of sunlight as she broke my heart.
It’s a time for practicality.
And I thought, could there be a time more desperate for poetry?
This isn’t a hundred years ago. You aren’t a hero in some epic tale.
The sunlight fell along her hair and I remembered sweet moments lost there in stolen passion.
I’d always hoped she’d make a fine princess to be saved.
There are things to consider, money and security, things that matter.
She turned in the sunlight, offering me a weak smile that could have meant she was sorry but might have meant nothing at all.
After she walked out, I realized it was precisely a moment for poetry.