She was gone.

Surprisingly, there was no pain at first; only a terrible numbness that seemed to drain me of all strength and motivation. The days and nights, scarcely distinct to begin with, faded into a meaningless blur. My every action was lethargic, lacking any true interest. Even my music had lost its soothing power, the notes mechanical and devoid of comfort.

By this time, most of what I had held dear in the long, empty years had been destroyed, mute testament to the brief rage I had felt before the numbness descended upon me. I wished no memory of my blighted existence to survive my passing. The only place yet untouched was her room. A door opened, a cautious step inside, the faint lingering smell of her perfume... the dreadfully familiar scent was what finally broke through the ice shrouding my shattered heart. A pain unlike any I had ever known sent me reeling to lean against her doorframe, my legs unable to support me against the onslaught of emotion threatening to drown me in its sheer intensity. Memories flooded my awareness, blinding me to the cruel realities of my world.

Memories of joy…her voice, ringing so sweetly and yet so powerfully on the vast stage…the thrill of having an angel by my side…a kiss… at first I only remembered the good. Inevitably, my mind turned to the darker memories, those of betrayal and profound agony. Helpless, I stumbled forward to the bed before collapsing under the weight of my grief and guilt. All the emotion so fiercely and unknowingly repressed during the last few weeks crashed upon me now. If only I had never met her! my mind cried. I would never have known this pain.

Time slid from my awareness. How long I lay there, I cannot say, even now. At length, I woodenly moved to get up. One must maintain a semblance of sanity, even if there was no one to witness it. A faint rustling came from the sheets as I shakily stood once more, the sound of a crumpled paper. Upon examination, it proved to be a page from one of my few collections of poetry. How it had come to be on the bed, I hadn't the faintest clue. Smoothing it out, I dully glanced at the words, recognizing the poem as one of Tennyson's.

I hold it true, what'ere befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

At first, I was enraged. What did he know of love? Some shallow infatuation, no doubt. Nothing compared to the all-consuming emotions I felt for her. How did he dare say that this pain, this agony, was better than nothing at all! As I raged, the deeper meaning slowly became clear to me. Did I truly want to have lived life without ever knowing what it was to be loved?

That question haunted me more aggressively than I had ever haunted the poor managers of my Opera House. My efforts to put the irritating matter from my mind were only moderately more successful than if I had attempted to stop the tides. The answer did come to me, eventually.

I would not have traded my love for her for anything in the world. Even the brief light she cast on my darkened existence was better than being lost to eternal darkness…

Tis better to have loved and lost…