Month: March 2017

Four.

It’s clichĂ©d to have hearts broken.

It’s clichĂ©d to cry over it for days.

It’s clichĂ©d to lose appetite over it.

It’s clichĂ©d to indulge in distractions.

It’s clichĂ©d to stay there in the blanket of memories and forever missing.

It’s clichĂ©d to drown the unsaid in the smoke of cigarettes.

It’s clichĂ©d to watch the sunset and not realize it’s rising again.

It’s clichĂ©d to play smiles and tears over and over like a midnight love song on a loop.

It’s clichĂ©d to not want to throw away the quilt in the warmer half of March, even though there’s sweat and tears and discomfort.

It’s clichĂ©d to stay up late watching everything that’s despicable because being a masochist is clichĂ©d too.

It’s clichĂ©d to go back to the same places and do the same things, but alone.

It’s clichĂ©d to sleep to dreams of a pulsating heart and wake up to a bleeding one.

It’s clichĂ©d to not give up on it.

It’s clichĂ©d to harbor false hope.

It’s clichĂ©d to count days, weeks, months of what would’ve been.

It’s clichĂ©d to remember the forgotten in new places and old objects.

It’s clichĂ©d to double over in pain every other night and yet vomit a little more the next time.

It’s clichĂ©d to fool the mind into believing the memories will wither and die soon.

It’s clichĂ©d to go back to square one in the spaces between laughs and sobs.

It’s clichĂ©d to die a little when the forgotten face pricks the back of the mind.

It’s clichĂ©d to die slowly and then all at once, seeing the shadows of what was in what is to be.

Because, after all,

It’s clichĂ©d to have hearts broken.

*shatters*

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