You never did like black coffee, and that was a problem. You like yours sweet; weak. I think you like a lot of things that way: submissive and spineless; pretty in all the wrong ways. You like things that are pretty in the night; things that get their lustrous glow from shadowy lamp shades in dark corner booths. Things that are pretty in a soft focus; the sharp edges blurred and left to the imagination under insufficient street lights. Forbidden love tastes the sweetest until you succumb to it. Nothing tastes more bitter than the truth. That all natural, raw, bitter, realization of the truth. But you never did like black coffee, and that was the problem.
It’s a funny thing about a broken heart. You find who you are and who you’re not; what have you have and what you don’t; what you’ve gained and what you’ve lost; what you thought you were, and who you have no choice but to become. It’s a funny thing about a broken heart; it shatters you into a million little pieces- one piece for every time he gave you butterflies and you think to yourself, how will I ever be whole again? It’s a funny thing about a broken heart; those pieces never quite fit back together exactly as they were. Each time you love, you give away some of yourself, and there’s a tiny piece that you will never see again. It changes who you are; how you are; what you are. Your heart and your ability to love are forever, not taken, but altered- perhaps for the better. Scott Fitzgerald said, “There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice”. You know why? Because it’s never the same heart twice.
It’s always uneven, but it seemed pretty even to me on that August night when I taught you to dance beneath the moon. You in a tux, I in a dress, the last ones to leave; the last ones left. Just you, just me. My car, the stars. We danced around in cirlces, and you let me stand on your feet so I didn’t get rocks in my shoes. It was the most precious show ever seen by the North Georgia star-filled sky. That’s my snap shot; my true love aged polaroid, framed in my heart, and used to compare against the others who’d come along long after this dusty town had swept you into someone else’s arms. They say it’s uneven, and it is uneven, but I guess I just didn’t notice; not until that midnight slowly faded into the grey dawn. You were gone when the sunlight filled my window, and there was nothing I could do.