There Is More To Write Than Can Ever Be Written
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Synopsis: One simply cannot express the entirety of loss that overwhelms, let alone Rose Tyler, in poems, compositions, short stories or essays… but oh, how one tries! - after Doomsday.
Disclaimer: The poem is mine. XD. Other than that, zip, zoot, zer-o. Enjoy my sad little tale!
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The Doctor sat with his head in his hands contemplating the words dancing before him on the otherwise blank sheet of paper. He had just finished another poem. Only this time there was a twist. He stood up and lifted the sheet that felt like lead in his worn hands and wearily, slowly, made his way over to the piano – another tribute to Rose Tyler. He figured that his writing would go better with music – sad music, of course. Music he had written himself (having met Beethoven just for the purpose of learning), which he was rather proud of. It had no words; it needed none. It came straight from the depths of his soul – he only hoped that somewhere, somehow, Rose would hear this and know it was for her.
He murmured his poem as he began to play a heartstring tugging song, his words no more than a whisper, though they could be heard easily over his forceful playing. The reason for this was his voice was so wretched, so violent and so, so very sad.
Why did you have to go,
My lovely, perfect Rose?
When will we meet again?
The answer to this, no one knows.
Tsn't fair you're not here with me
You are so far away
My only love is beyond my reach,
So now for you I play.
The Doctor played on softly, his violence gone, but his tone even more hoarse as tears began to trickle down his cheeks.
My Rose! So sweet, so far from me
My Rose! Forever mine.
Eternal in my heart you'll stay,
And I, for always, in thine.
If you should listen, my English Rose
To this lament I write,
My only joy; my only hope,
That you'll think of me tonight.
With a heavy heart, the Doctor ended the piece with a small, but effective, high note. He rose from the piano bench slowly, picked up the piece of paper and wearily walked across the room to the locked filing cabinet as high as a bookshelf and as wide as the TARDIS (on the outside). In fact, it was quite a large cabinet – and it was filled with his works on the love and loss of his life. He glanced at the sheet with his poem and smiled sadly, as his eyes took on their now normal, dead look. As he gently and lovingly folded the piece of paper, he knew with a certainty it was the end.
No more. It was the last.
Next, he unlocked the bottom cabinet, a sure indication that all of the rest were full. When he forced the large bottom drawer open, anyone could plainly see that the subject of his writing was his fixation. With a heavy sigh, he laid the folded page gently on top of the almost overflowing pile. That was when he changed his mind.
He walked back to his desk and still warm wooden chair as he glanced towards the flickering candle and then down at his ink-stained hands.
There was still more to be written.