It was always the same story; sometimes night after night, sometimes only once in a long while, sometimes only in dreams.

Lovers connected to one another in the purest, most basic form of affection. It was raw, it was meaningless; it was life changing, it was complete fulfillment.

Limbs intertwined, skin brushed skin, eyelids fluttered, jaws trembled. Hardened black eyes met determined brown irises. Lovers flushed and quivered against one another, silently making known what they had failed to say so many times before.

The lovers twisted and turned with one another, until the trumpets blared, fireworks exploded, and the world paused in its cycle.

Minutes or days passed, neither lover could tell for sure. With a heavy sigh, a pale, weathered hand brushed a stray honey curl away from a milky forehead. The lovers separated, and the world came crashing in deafeningly. Sheets were tossed aside, and a lean, pale figure stood in the moonlight. He gathered his belongings, and in bending over to fasten his robes, met his lover’s eye.

Her gaze pleaded for what she knew could not happen. Her eyes darkened, a look of dejection plaguing her delicate features.

His chest tightened; he looked away. Running his hand through his tangled hair, he stepped forward, then relented, turning to face the door. With his eyes flashing wildly, he grasped the handle of the heavy wooden door, and departed. He knew as well as she that they simply could not be.