The truth be told, the ones we love are never truly lost, they never leave us. Instead they transform into a quiet breeze, a gentle rain, a setting sun and a waking moon. And if you choose to accept them in their changing forms, they'll forever live amongst the stars.

He was like rain, a subtle nudge to the soul. He arrived quietly, often without warning. At times he'd trickle slowly through her mind, a gentle passing, but before she could run for cover she'd find herself drowning in his memory, flooded with heartache all over again.

Without warning life unveiled his mask. He was no longer soothing or kind. He was a reckless thief that stole for the sheer thrill of taking, leaving no explanation behind. Her world had forever shifted, and nothing in it would ever be the same.

And underneath the harvest moon she hummed the tune of a distant lullaby, reminding her the heart was nothing more than a setting sun preparing for a glowing consummation.

Loving her was a labyrinth of entanglement. Just when you felt you were breaking through, she would dissipate, leaving you grieving for something that never was. She felt destroyed, so she destroyed; it was a wrenching existence where everyone endured.

And although she had been broken, shattered beyond repair, to me she had transformed to mosaic. A beautiful array of mismatched pieces, perfectly placed back together again.