I don’t know why they call it having your heart stolen. It’s not. And that’s the problem. It’s still very much there, in your chest, beating, beating, beating.
Maybe if it was stolen it would be better.
Maybe you wouldn’t feel the ache of loneliness with every contraction.
Maybe you could finally get some uninterrupted sleep, without the ghost of them.
Maybe every time your phone went off your heart wouldn’t lurch to the front of your ribs like it is trying to escape.
Maybe you wouldn’t feel like grabbing a carving knife and cutting the damn thing out. Putting it in a box with a bow. Neatly addressing it with loopy cursive writing that you reserve for special occasions. And sending it to them.
Maybe they shouldn’t call it getting your heart stolen. They should call it keeping your heart. For that is far worse.
PS. I love you Toots. I’m always here.
Written by Sugar for Toots but it wouldn’t post right so I just stole it :p Thank you honey. that was beautiful
I wonder what it’s like to have someone fall for you. And I mean really fall for you. Not just they want to get in your pants because they think you’re attractive. But be consumed with every little piece of you. The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you just exist. To everyone in love: you don’t know how lucky you are.