In the still of the night, when shadows lengthen,

And stars weep silent tears in the expanse,

My heart, a ship adrift on tempestuous ocean,

Struggles to find its harbor, lost in the chase.

Oh, love, how you can rend the soul asunder,

Like autumn leaves torn from their verdant boughs,

Each one a story of joy and sorrow,

Now withering, their lifeblood drained by your wraiths.

Yet in this desolation, I find solace,

In lines penned by those who knew your sting:

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,"

So wrote Shakespeare, his words a balm to my wounds.

And thus I turn to verse, to find solace in rhyme,

To weave a tapestry of broken dreams and unspoken truths.

For in the language of poets, there lies

A comfort that cannot be found in mundane words.

So here I pen my sorrow, my pain and my longing,

A tribute to love's end and its aftermath.

For though love may be a fleeting flame,

Its echoes linger long within our hearts.