He’s live and kicking

Saturday night. Full moon and twinkling stars covered up the darkened blue sky.
Cold night, shattered debris.  Dust in the wind raced to reach the end of borderless spatial arena.
Street lamps were on a line, marching up like a race. Shedding some candelas. Un-dimming the night.
Crowd were everywhere. Cozy places were taken, almost occupied. Chatters and laughters were mesmerized. So merry.
Not even a preach, everybody was on bliss.

Sitting a woman in grief. Melancholy song guaranteed a handkerchief.
Slim body was wrapped by decent dress, a silhoutte of sexiness.
Beautiful face was so flattering, diminished flawlessly by the reddish eyes.
Elegance was a story, sadness won a victory.
Paradox or irony?

Telling me a story. A heartless man in history.
Trying to listen in silence. Grasping each word in details.
Keeping self control, not to be owned by emotion.
She paused the tone, asking for a solution.
You know, you’re talking to a wrong person.

Speaking with logic, telling her the truth. Arranging my words, harder than blabbing my mouth.
"Don’t live with only feelings", said I. "You know how you feel but you know it won’t fix things".
"Commitment is about two persons. No use forcing your feeling if you don’t get the same feedback".
"When you dare to start, you know, you should be ready for the ending, however bad you don’t want it."

"Yes, but I’m afraid"
"I’m not ready for this situation. I can’t just plainly accept that this is for real"
That man triggered the killer gun, saying:
"Life has to go on. If you keep behaving like this, you’re torturing yourself. You have to move on. Do you believe that ‘love isn’t always to be defined as possessing?’"
Her eyes got more gloomy. Reddish eyes were burned with more sorrow.
Finally it was there.
A clear drop was falling from the edge of her fine eyes.

In front of me,
A woman cried
For a thing called love.