On nights when we widowers miss our loves and lovers, we turn to the drug of the pen. We write away in the blur of the emotional moment, describing out goings through the motions of life with no companion. We widowers wander the trails of lonesomeness, with the moon's shadows across our backs and the stars' gloom taunting and haunting. This traveling truly is daunting. Eventually, a combination of loneliness and anguish develops in us these small, bad habits. We bite our nails and drink too much too often, we let our facial hair grow. We start looking the part of heartbroken folks who can't move on, especially as they dream of their lovers constantly.
And, like we treasure this time of writing--not the writings themselves, we think them worthless--as it reminds us of our loves, we treasure reading their writings--anything they've left. Quotes like "They say never say never, well I say... I will never leave you because I want you to have me forevermore" make us cry, others make us laugh. It is only then that we are not crashing into the reality of life and being ripped apart by the shards of its memories. Then, we are feeling real feelings; then, we are laughing or, probably, crying.

Adonis

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I loved you and loved you 'till love was no more, and more than loving you, I loved loving you. I loved having someone to write into endless poems and books, indeed into History herself. I liked being able to say

"Thou dearest one to me,

Of whom I ne'er speak darkly,

Lest it e'er come to be,

I love Thee in a sort of worship,

Second but to God,

And for the world shan't let Thee go,

But following Thee shall live away,

Treading where Thou hast trod."

But now, wrecks of memories that scar both wrists and lives aggravate me. For love grows thin, and love grows silent. Smiles turn into contorted mouths, unable to voice the monstrosity of the pain within, unable to end the asphyxiation. Temporary pleasures become eternal pains. Those lovers that felt newborn forget all feeling and withdraw into outer darkness, into the realm of the hollow, of shells, of stillborns. And they suddenly find themselves outside of Noah's Ark, knocking to no avail, knowing the magnitude of the coming destruction, coughing and shivering in the barbarous rain. Their infatuation in that peerless gaze of their lover becomes a nagging nightmare, and they start waking up, screaming "Et tu, Brutè?"

It's the truth, I've known such times, I've lived through them. I live through them still.

Adonis

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