she's like a song. isn't she?
ripped tights and cigarette burns, wasn't she dark. cold stone steps, the wind burning her face. school skirt that always was to short for the authorities, not like she would listen. rock music and hickeys, oh it truly was quite amusing, the excuses she would make to sneak off into the royal blue night. littered kisses the hung on her neck, rebel with a cause she was. she intimidated thoes around her, not because she was rude, just generally because she was diffrent, and only him, knew who she was. the luxury of a boarding school in eastern europe, kids with to much money, parent who were greed with that new money, or the oldest of old money. now she, she didn't fall into either of thoes. what a girl to write a song about, i'm sure ones out there. never without headphones, the constant tap of her pen kept her steady with the beat of her oh so big heart. coffee that burnt lips, far to good to quit. wasn't that her? a dark roast of coffee, to strong for some. life wasn't always a song, cherry colored knuckles, plum colored bruises lay across her skin. now he, he was a boy from a small town. shy, very infacrt. he always had a book, he loved literature, something was so romantic about connect someone, to a character in a book. she was a Jo March, Janie Crawford and she said it was to much of a compliment to be a Hester Prynne, isn't that backwards. love can sometimes hard to explain, he made her feel alive and possibly warm, when he was around her he felt alive and just as warm. to feed off one another, for a long time they feared speaking on what is was. they were every single first with eachother, but somehow to was hard to say "this is my boyfriend" no they didn't want anyone else, everyone knew they were together, what classifys a boyfriend? someone you pour out to, someone you have breathless kisses with, someone to laugh and to cry, to be that shoulder, someone's skin you knew better than your own. the song he was, depending on his mood, he could be quite and shy, or he could be sad and distance, he could be joyful and bright. though she, she was always his bright time. her smile made his heart skip a beat, no matter how many times he saw it, her eyes they were like no other. his lips they were soft, a little chapped, but perfect for her. a summer in paris, naked bodies pressed against eachother, without you how could i breath without you they thought. life wasn't always a song, hot tears stung her face, lungs screaming for release, cherry colored bruises against her knuckles, plum colored bruises across her face. so she was more broken then expected, he didn't mind he was also. i'll glue the pieces back together for you, if you glue mine. life wasn't always a song, real life began, at first they tried, it was hard being apart. so it ended, fuck it hurt, why was she hurting when she ended it. 4 years had gone by. now she, she lived in new york city, a struggling artist, that was the romantic part, her specialty was painting. she was doing alright, most of the time. she'd stop calling him, when it got hard and they lived in opposite time zones, she never stopped thinking about him, it came in waves when she missed him like hell. someone times he woke up in the middle of the night and wish she was in his arms, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. now he, he was living in paris as an author and a journalist, until he was transferred to new york city, was she still in the city?