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.