Over the top of the hill lay a man with his woman. Having felt her innermost desires in his heart the worth of her body was now nothing to him. He casually removed his clothes from the shelf and walked out of the house without a care.
The woman of course unaware about his sudden departure was yet to recover from the happenings of the day. She had found herself in bed with a stranger. A man she had only met hours ago. And not only had she outdone her own inhibitions, she had perhaps crossed a line or two beyond the realm of reason.
But what had been the closing act of the scene surprised many.
His suicide only minutes later came as the final piece of the show. A show which had started long back but found space and energy only on that particular day.
                                              *                                   *                                     *
He had moved across cities and hills and suns of different lands only to finally find his resting space. Beside a woman. His idea of love had always been elusive but so much had been spoken about the last dying words of a man that he thought his actions may never scale the limits.
Thirty days or more had gone by and his thoughts had found no space in the real world.
But there she was, standing across him as dainty as any woman could be. Untouched, unexplored and if his mind could permit to say so unexpected. Because her beauty was nowhere compared to the women who had thrown at him all these years.
                                               *                                   *                                     *
But why die? A question that haunted many but none more than the woman herself.
She felt a sense of relief when she heard the news. Was it the end of a guilt trip? A chapter best laid to rest in the ashes? She could not say so. But whatever emotion she may have revealed, remorse or sadness was not one of them.
                                               *                                   *                                   *
And in his wallet was an address, a picture of a lady long died. And a roughly scribbled paper with Edgar Poe’s last poetry.
Annabel Lee
 
It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.
 
I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.
 
And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.
 
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
 
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.
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