Oh what it must feel to love.
The sweet caress of your lovers hand,
The promise of a future.
All the dreams you conjure in bed,
soon to be planned.
The way she laughs behind her hand
Makes her eyes sparkle with mischief.
Oh, how you love her.
She takes your hand and leads you
You're okay with that, you say,
You would follow her anywhere.
She takes you to new places
Makes you feel new things.
She says she feels the same
And you believe her.
But you don't notice when she's gone
Or those phone calls that take ever so long
Or the way she doesn't say goodnight and stays on her side.
She doesn't take you by the hand
and onto an adventure;
her hands lie limply beside her, almost hesitant to touch.
You know these are the signs of what's to come,
But still, you hold on as though nothing has happened.
Your friend says he saw her at a bar with someone new,
and you tell him to fuck off because he's jealous of what you have.
But you know it's true.
By the time she comes home, her stuff has been packed and
you're in the room
She tries to come inside but you've prepared for the worst.
You've had time to realize
that she's about to break your heart.
She tries one more time before she brokenly calls out a pathetic
"I'm sorry"
and as she continues to talk you realize that it's not the first time she's done this.
Several men, several times, have all enjoyed
her sparkling eyes,
her loud laugh,
her soft, warm hands.
Your despair turn to anger and you slam the door open.
You call her
a bitch,
a slut,
a whore,
anything to make you feel better.
But it doesn't.
As you trail off you
hear your voice break
and her makeup is running
but you feel as though the only thing running should be you.
You hate her, you realize.
No you don't.
You hate what she did, but you still love her.
You love her laugh,
her smile,
the curly baby hairs she can't ever seem to tame,
you love the way she reads her books
and the way she has to have the same breakfast every day.
You love her.
And that is the worst part of it all.
