She was the lightening that danced across his night sky.
He was her rock when her waves broke on the shores.
She was the rock he broke himself on.
She was the mystery he could never 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 that the light at the end of the tunnel was only paint.

Leaving her was cutting out a tumor he had grown to love.
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 red, lust-filled fury.
But, above all, they were real.