Fibonacci's Got Nothing On Me

Sitting in her pocket was the locket that he left,
Repeating his last words before he parted nest,
"Wait for me at the end of the pier,
"As the sun comes down I'll return by the year."
Each day that she waited at the end of the plank,
Was her catalyst for the ends of which she'd think,
And the tomb in which she'd lay them rest,
It had been too long since his last caress.
So she set her careful plan down in stone,
With a helping hand while he wasn't home.
Gathered her feathered dreams from the abandoned market,
Put them with his emptied promises in the little golden locket,
Found the oldest bottle of brandy-wine and popped it,
Then stuffed the hope inside and dropped it down like a rock had hit,
Her between the eyes when she stopped to realize,
That all of his love, that he sent from the sea, was a lie.
As the excuses bobbed like a fish in the salt,
She walked back to her cabin, so sure that he'd been caught,
Took her answers from atop the shelves,
Put them in the solution for health,
And solved her equation for Hell.
When the next day arrived, the flies on her numbers heard a bell,
They turned to see,
Standing at six foot three,
Their calculation's husband to be.