A/N: Poems into Stories Competition, Sonnet 147: My Love is as a fever, longing still, William Shakespeare. Last one for the medium level *wipes sweat off face*. Writing poems from Shakespeare's poetry isn't easy. :) This one's a little Lily/Sev to wrap things up.
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179. Black Swan
He could never love another: that heat he felt from her
in his heart burnt on, burnt his body from within.
He is sick now, sick because the burning love cannot be cooled
by her kiss, her embrace: he melts into an ugly ball of plastic
beyond help, beyond hope.
He has no reason to go on, except the memory he keeps alive
that all others have warped, and the hope she'd
despaired.
For her, he must be the black swan even as he melts within
because her despair was even more painful a thing;
if only she could have stayed and cured him
but the black coal that coated his feathers
was not her, but him.