let me tell you a story.
it's not a boy-meets-girl kind of story.
it's different, very different, worlds apart.
this story is about a poet who fell in love with a footballer. unsurprisingly, the poet had all the words she could need to wrap around her feelings.
the footballer had only the feelings, not the words. but they made do.
for a while.
then the footballer discovered that she didn't even have her feelings left, and she cut the strings on the poet's joints and walked away. the poet stayed behind and bled quiet ink.
the moral? there is none. that is all there is to it, much as i wish there was more. more to come, more to follow.
it stopped before it had really begun and i shouldn't be sad, i shouldn't, but i am.
we could have been great, i think. i'll never know.
(if only you were just a little heartbroken.)