I can't tell you when it happen. I don't know if it took a decade, years, or a month.

A young man once had a castle, built of hope, made with love only for her.
For that special one he had built this fortress.

For the one, who would look uppon the walls and know how he love her. She would walk the halls and know they'd stand forever there with her. As would he.

For her, he waited, he hoped, he longed. Along came travelers passing by, and some he invited in, in hope, that someone would see, see who he was, what he feel.

Along came many travelers, but none stayed. No one saw who he was or knew what he felt. But when they left he gave them a stone from his walls. Maybe some day they would see.

Years past, travelers as well. and the walls shrunk. The halls became empty and barren.
The light once so bright now dim and cold.

Now the man sitts in his ruin. all but some few walls of stone left.
None will ever se the splendor it once held. None shall know of his love, nor feel his hand who built the castle hold them close.

Sitting in this ruin he gives in to despair. Who would love a king of a few old rocks.


And then.
I felt your hand against mine.