Someone's broken the spell tonight. The fire within you has died, left you nothing but mere thoughts of ash to hide. Old memories come to haunt you of a time when you longed for someone, for sense, when it was like some battle and you could've won. And now, they stand besides you, with their arms crossed, like some angry witch at a half-eaten moon, just like when we part at times on promises to meet soon. What is love, you say, to a withered rose? Where is beauty, you say, when the sun has been swallowed? Tonight could've been different, Neruda would've said, but if only he knew...