Author's note: I rewatched Doyle's death scene to write this! Not mine!
He wasn't tall, he didn't have big muscles,
He didn't brood or have lame, spiky hair.
He doesn't wear leather, disappear into the night,
He's not a tragic hero, who can't sleep around or else...
He was of average height, less than average build,
He smiled like most people do.
He wears bright clothing, almost everything on him clashes,
He stays in one place, and stealth is foreign to him.
He is just a messenger, not afraid to flaunt himself.
But he is a man, and men can love,
In fact, they fall very hard.
"Too bad we'll never learn," he said.
"If this is a face," she was crying.
"You could learn to love."
He was half-demon, lived in sort-of a dump,
And all she had left was, all she could grasp
Was, "Is this it? Am I done?"
He was done. He was dead.
He was done, she was not.
"At least he kissed me," she thought.
"At least he saved so many.
At least I have something left."
All she had left was his gift.
"Too bad," she thought. "Indeed.
I think I already loved him."