I wish to tell a tale woven by the saddest seamstresses
and the woeful weavers of past impression. A tale that
speaks much for itself--of love and denial,
of hope and the sinister stagnation of that sour game.

A girl and a boy first locked eyes at the innocent age of six.
Night inseparable they were, with their games of tag and
hide-and-seek. Soon enough the age would ware, oxidize and age
like a rusted car, or the broken petals of a tulip flower.

They became lady and gentleman, hand-in-hand with each passing
day. Their smiles became brighter, and the slight faults they found in eachother
became their reason for being together. Never did their hands get quite further
than a hug, or a pat on the back.

Then came the age of woman and man--he went off to war to fight the evil;
she went off to college to study the stars in the sky. Their parting was a sight
to bring tears to your eyes, but it seemed forced
like cutting and onion with nothing to protect from the putrid fumes.

His time at war grew shorter and shorter with every job he'd done--
with no moment of amorous thought towards the woman he had been with
all his life. Not even a name popped into his head as he worked, toiling
to pass every moment of grace.

Her time of study became disdain as she cried every night, filling her papers
with tears. The puddles would gather the ink of the pen and ruin her drudging
work. No letters, no call, no sign of life--nothing at all. With this, her life had withered
away--become nothing, like a droplet of water in the locker of Davy Jones.

Time had passed, cars rusted and age wore on. Their deeds were forgotten,
their hearts both broken. It might have been a love story between Solja and Salvador,
but as easily as it became such broken hearts, fate twisted the bindings of that tale
and cut the dreaded twine in two.