But it is not true. there is no happiness, no butterflies, no heat rushing.. nothing.
It's all so different and painstakingly beautiful.
yes, I talk of the horridly tempting emotion of love, the one feeling everyone would kill to feel.
yet once they have it in all certainty they wish for nothing less then to meet their end because love is so different than it is in books because they don't always love you back or the same amount or the way you deserve to be loved.
They don't always care about how their words might hurt you but that's the reality of love.
It's so perfectly imperfect that no one ever dared question it, not when they were sane, not before they got their heart utterly shattered, and certainly not when they weeped all night on cold tiles or on fields late at night in a haunting darkness that somehow managed to comfort them, wrapping itself around them and running its invisible fingers through their hair. And so there was the once perfect lover who was once again comparing them to the stars.
Indeed another poet would soon be born but this one would certainly not write with just ink.
No, this one would rather write with blood in the solace of their own deadly shadow, half-hidden by darkness and torn apart by love.
