What happens when love dies?
Does it go slowly and softly,
a whisper of silk sliding off the end of a bed?
Does it go violently and with passion,
a hurricane of tempestuous proportions
slamming against a brick wall?
Does it drift away in the night,
a thief stealing off in the shadows?
Whether loud or quiet, passionate or passionless,
it leaves a vacant, empty void when love dies.
A patch of painful barren ground.
But where there is death,
there is hope
that one day life and love will spring anew.
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