The great moment that never became, because time stood still. We stood still. A strange dance it was, rhythm and movement curtailed. Sound and symphony muted. Beauty was looked upon with atrophied eyes and mistakenly judged as ugly. The end was nigh. That which never existed came to an end. And the angels laughed at the irony.

A void with substance, an emptiness made of matter, we were the oxymoron. Foolish in love and fools in youth, time looked upon us and scowled at our hesitance. Hesitance that proved to be our undoing, our missteps and tentativeness making a mess of our waltz.

The trace of your name across my lips is all that remains, an acrid taste. The echoes fall on deaf ears. With a slate wiped clean, I continue in my dysfunction.

The end.