grinning like thieves,
about to commit a crime.
you can see his beam from across the way.
nothing else will ever matter.
sharing everything, and waltzing in your room.
crying into his shoulder, and having him remind you that you're beautiful, so beautiful.
you're looking in the mirror at the mascara that is no longer on your lashes, but down your cheeks.
you are told that it's forever, and just like that, it's all ok again. it's bearable.
you're so in love and so, so young.
you're bulletproof, made of steel, nothing will ever break you.
except for maybe, yourself.
"The tragedy of falling in love,
is that it's always somehow taken from you."
you don't believe these words that are lurking in your subconscious.
because you're untouchable, he's your angel, your rainbows and all your stars.
it never turns out this way.
your demon, your grey skies, and all your tears.
all on him.
he's not yours, not anymore.
maybe never will be again.
you're getting stronger though.
learning that those beams he once sent your way can be compensated for.
you're getting over it.
he was your first, and you were his.
no one can take your place in his heart, even if they go in with blades and guns and hammers.
this part will always be yours, even if he isn't.
you're sealed in your own little box.
the box may half in size, but it may double, even triple, but it'll never vanish completely.
for you are still the first flame, in a row of melting candles.
you're the first hand on the clock, the first branch on the tree.
never to be replaced or taken back.
it'll hurt, oh god, it'll kill you.
you'll be one brick away from building yourself back up, and he'll come along, like a bulldozer.
you'll sigh, and grab the cement.
you've heard the phrase "it will get better" too many times for it to sound real anymore.
you wish people would just tell you that it's shitty.
because it is, it's really, really shitty.
but your supply of cement is endless, don't you worry.
yes, he's gone. but not completely.
soon enough, he'll just be a faded etch in your brain. another face to nod to in the morning. just any other boy, on any other day, going about any other business.
that'a the magnificent thing, about a broken heart.
there's always a needle and thread on hand, to stitch it back up again.