It seems – after an alliance, so full of fun, laughter, and promises, such complaints, resentments, tears, followed by a prolonged tug-of-war that fought for its continued facility against the odds that propelled its termination – that the end, when it is fixed as irrevocable, should be met with such quiet. The quiet that has settled on this battlefield seems almost anti-climactic. The quiet that is the result of an absence in our conversations, our laughter, our disputes, is more confusing than it is painful. Shouldn’t the end be marked by something more volatile, more earthshattering?
Someone should die, someone should marry, someone should rejoice! For it is freedom, we sought, from the tangled web of resentments that we wove. It is freedom, we sought, from the intoxication we called love that ensnared our senses and fogged our reasons – for and against.
But alas! It is only quiet. You are no longer with me; we are never to meet again. But do you think of me still, I wonder. Can you, too, feel the quiet of my absence? But it is a question I must only ask into the void, an answer that I may not expect but in void. Because all that remains is quiet – more elusive than silence (where, at least, comfort lies).
The Romantic Quill 