Heartbreak is defined by what it is not.
It mocks relief; tranquility becomes a privilege, and keeping time is no longer your choice.
We’re hysterical, it’s something about your eyes, they’re my nirvana.
Something about lingering into nighttime.
Something about knowing it isn’t forever.
Heartbreak is not a prophecy.
It’s grieving before the gun goes off.
Gnawing, wretched, aggravation because it was all so avoidable.
In the grooves itched between your subconscious, it writes empty letters to them, those you wish could fix it all.
There’s no alternative.
Heartbreak is not relatable.
Everyone feels it, but not in the way you do; it’s indescribably profound, yet so dull.
It fancies itself, lingering to remind you of what you won’t feel again.
The whooping cough nobody has a remedy for, the unfinished sentences, and every single memory that will never happen.
It’s coaxed into a melody you listen to until its past association is a melancholy blur.
Heartbreak is not eloquent.
Only after answering the phone before the 9th ring can you wallow in what each one could have been.
Each glint of rage tucked into your tears for all the words they didn’t hear you say.
Every diary entry crumpled, your dead presence looming– it makes me dizzy– the way your paintings stare into my eyes as I lie to sleep.
It’s not the present act of your heart cracking in two; it’s the anticipation when you knew it was coming, aggravation at myself for ever getting so attached.
Heartbreak is nobody new.
It just is.
You, the reader, have infinite possibilities too to one day find it.
Interpret your life beyond the in-between, gently feel the grooves beneath your feet.
Enjoy the acoustic all on your own.
Heartbreak can echo, and it will.
It defines itself by what it cannot be, so in return, you must be.
It mocks relief; tranquility becomes a privilege, and keeping time is no longer your choice.
We’re hysterical, it’s something about your eyes, they’re my nirvana.
Something about lingering into nighttime.
Something about knowing it isn’t forever.
Heartbreak is not a prophecy.
It’s grieving before the gun goes off.
Gnawing, wretched, aggravation because it was all so avoidable.
In the grooves itched between your subconscious, it writes empty letters to them, those you wish could fix it all.
There’s no alternative.
Heartbreak is not relatable.
Everyone feels it, but not in the way you do; it’s indescribably profound, yet so dull.
It fancies itself, lingering to remind you of what you won’t feel again.
The whooping cough nobody has a remedy for, the unfinished sentences, and every single memory that will never happen.
It’s coaxed into a melody you listen to until its past association is a melancholy blur.
Heartbreak is not eloquent.
Only after answering the phone before the 9th ring can you wallow in what each one could have been.
Each glint of rage tucked into your tears for all the words they didn’t hear you say.
Every diary entry crumpled, your dead presence looming– it makes me dizzy– the way your paintings stare into my eyes as I lie to sleep.
It’s not the present act of your heart cracking in two; it’s the anticipation when you knew it was coming, aggravation at myself for ever getting so attached.
Heartbreak is nobody new.
It just is.
You, the reader, have infinite possibilities too to one day find it.
Interpret your life beyond the in-between, gently feel the grooves beneath your feet.
Enjoy the acoustic all on your own.
Heartbreak can echo, and it will.
It defines itself by what it cannot be, so in return, you must be.
