Heartstrings

When he breaks my heart (he won't even know it), he'll drop it like glass - effortlessly, with no idea of how it shatters - and I won't ever tell him.

I'll pick up the scattered shards (all of them, without piecing them back together), wrap them in velvet, and leave them on the dresser.

Yet there will be a soft killing, killing, killing every time I see him, every time I pretend not to.

Hard eyes and dying lights - I won't fool anyone when I say I couldn't give a damn. (Another lie - I would, but I'll hope he never finds out.)

Everything I've written (and all those I'll write, inspired by his existence) will be stricken with melancholy, if not the naivety of one chasing after light.

But I'll put him in my credits, write him into my author's note, and be satisfied that he was once my muse for possible happy endings.

I'll have my forever, or whatever is left.

I knew you'd linger like a stolen kiss

I knew you'd haunt all of my what ifs