Poets write poems, singers sing, dancers dance, painters paint, to express their grief, disappointment, sadness and regrets, and they then pass it on to the world. World reads it and appreciate.
She appreciated them, too. She was kind to share their sadness by being its reader and an admirer.
He loved her unconditionally. He loved her in her anger. He loved her in her weirdness. He danced, he sang and he wrote in pain to her about his melancholy, but the beloved refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t kind enough to share his sadness by being a listener.
Now he cries inside, but still narrates her as a kind soul in all his poems, paintings and unsung songs.
Who says love is beautiful?