Prose

And he'll come along, with words that pluck at the strings of your heart, playing a beautiful song. His words will taste like vanilla and smell of the richest chocolates. Like roses on headstones, he'll cover the bad with good and trick you into a false sense of reality.
You'll call it love.
But soon that song will become discordant and the harmonies will die. The vanilla will turn to the burn of vodka and the chocolate will be dark. The corpses will claw their way through the rich earth, their bones bare and bent. Flowers will wilt and turn to black, singeing along the edges with the stench of death and decay. He will no longer be beautiful. No more.
But you will still call it love.
And the strings of your heart will burst and break, ending the song completely. The vodka will cease to taste, leaving bitterness that does not seem to go away. The chocolate will melt into puddles that drip off tablecloths, staining and soaking the earth with spoil. The dead will rise and the roses will be no more, the scent of decay wafting through the saddened earth. He won't be beautiful and you won't call it love.
But if it's anything, anything at all, the sting of pain is all but permanent. If anything at all, he is as temporary as the day and night and the waves on the shore and the burn and the decay will fade, dark will be light again and love will no longer exist in the form of him.
If there is anything that will soothe this searing pain, he is nothing but an illusion, just like the ones he creates.