A Poet wandered far and wide,
with empty pages by her side,
searching every road she\'d roam
for words that felt enough like home.
A Magician wandered too,
chasing skies forever new,
collecting wonders, tricks, and light,
falling in love with every sight.
Then one day at a crossroads fair,
their lonely journeys led them there.
The Poet smiled, the Magician stayed,
and something beautiful was made.
He showed her stars with clever hands,
told her tales of distant lands,
spoke of futures bright and clear,
and whispered love into her ear.
She wrote of him in every line,
turned ordinary into divine,
filled her notebooks, page by page,
with his laughter, charm, and stage.
He read each poem, every word,
as though her voice was all he heard.
He kissed her brow beneath the moon,
and promised he would return soon.
So side by side they built a place,
a little home, a quiet space.
Where poems slept and magic glowed,
far away from every road.
For a while, love stayed the same,
warm as fire, soft as rain.
But seasons change and people too,
though hearts pretend they never do.
The Magician chased another show,
another place, another road.
New tricks to learn, new crowds to see,
while she remained beneath their tree.
The poems waited on the shelf,
gathering dust all by themselves.
The chair beside her stayed unused,
while she kept writing of her muse.
\"He\'ll come back soon,\" the Poet said,
repeating hopes inside her head.
She called it patience, called it grace,
while absence slowly took his place.
Until one day the Poet knew,
the thing she feared was finally true.
The man she loved still roamed the earth,
but no longer saw her worth.
So she wrote one final rhyme,
about a love outlived by time.
Not filled with anger, not with blame,
just quiet grief that softly came.
She packed her notebooks, closed the door,
and stepped toward a distant shore.
Yet walked so slowly, heart unsure,
still hoping love might find a cure.
She listened for his running feet,
for one last plea, for them to meet.
For one last trick to make her stay,
for one last reason not to stray.
But only silence filled the air,
the road stretched empty everywhere.
The wind moved gently through the trees,
carrying unanswered pleas.
And somewhere in that fading light,
the Poet finally lost the fight.
Not with love, for love remained,
but with the hope she\'d once maintained.
For what broke her was not goodbye,
nor all the tears she had to cry.
It was knowing she had stayed so long,
trying to make a right from wrong,
while waiting for a Magician\'s art...
to choose her heart.
The saddest thing, the travelers say,
was not that she had walked away.
It was that the Poet, pure and true,
spent years believing love would do
what love alone could never do
make someone choose her,
the way she chose him.