Paper Hearts
Paper Hearts
He found it, handwritten, folded inside a book.
Remember:
This is not a paper hearts kind of love. Not a flowers chocolates midnight moonlight kind of love. This isn't grandkids on our knees happy graying retirees. This is not that kind of love.
This is not the kind of love that comes with rings. Not with cats, or dancing, or talk of what colour to paint the shutters. This is not love in a Valentine's box, pearled buttons sequins lace. Silk is for other uses.
This is not a call me when you're lonely kind of love, not a note left in your lunchsack or a kiss before you're off to work kind of love. No violins no roses no happily ever afters.
No paper hearts.
Just us, and the days and the nights. Just us, and the rustle of stiff sheets. Just us. Just us. Just us. Two hearts slowly beating in the dark, counting out the seconds.
Listen.
He found it, handwritten, folded inside a book.
Remember:
This is not a paper hearts kind of love. Not a flowers chocolates midnight moonlight kind of love. This isn't grandkids on our knees happy graying retirees. This is not that kind of love.
This is not the kind of love that comes with rings. Not with cats, or dancing, or talk of what colour to paint the shutters. This is not love in a Valentine's box, pearled buttons sequins lace. Silk is for other uses.
This is not a call me when you're lonely kind of love, not a note left in your lunchsack or a kiss before you're off to work kind of love. No violins no roses no happily ever afters.
No paper hearts.
Just us, and the days and the nights. Just us, and the rustle of stiff sheets. Just us. Just us. Just us. Two hearts slowly beating in the dark, counting out the seconds.
Listen.