A broken heart looks so much better down on paper,
Rust staining purity with pain.
Shattered pieces pulsing a beat of abandonment under the skin

I feel my pulse and wonder why it hasn’t stopped yet.
(because I’ve always thought it romantic to die of a broken heart)
I guess it means that I still have something to live for.

I wish I know the thoughts that cause the half pause between
mind and mouth every time you speak to me
(do you miss me too?)

a/n: rediscovered last night, and dated 5.11.06. this is total shite poetry. sorry- i was in a bad way for a bit, kids.