It tears me to pieces-
knowing that you belong to her,
and not to me.
But how?
You told me you wanted more,
you told me you loved me,
you acted in a way that made everyone else
believe that the words you had said to me
were the truth.
Then maybe one day,
you will sing for me.
Maybe one day,
you will hold me close.
Maybe one day,
you will be mine.
But today is not that day.
It should be,
but that day is not today.
I can see it as if it had been planned:
You will have called me when I was too busy to pick up the phone,
and then waited for me to call you back.
You would have held my hand as we walked from class to class,
and I would have trusted you.
You would have gently kissed me,
and I would have kissed your soft lips back.
You would have let me fall asleep in the comfort of your arms,
and I would have breathed in sync with the rhythm of your heart
beating against your chest.
You would have sat there with me,
and I with you,
and there would be no need for anything
other than understanding of silence.
But none of this is for me right now.
This is all for her.
Because she gave you everything at the price
of being caught committing a crime,
and I,
I gave you everything at the cost of
my heart,
my mind,
and my soul.
I love you.
with every piece of my heart,
with every shred of my soul,
with every thought that passes through my mind,
and with every word that falls from the tip of my tongue,
I love you.

This one was different. Not the kind of different you hear about from Hollywood. Not the kind of different that’s only in fairytales, where the farm hand has a heart of gold and the duke wants to steal the maiden’s gold. No; not this time. This was a bad different. But one that felt…so good, so right, one that simply couldn’t be ignored. He may have been the cast to her broken heart, but I suppose we’ll never know.

The first one’s kiss tasted sweet. Sweet to match his chocolate eyes, sweet to match the music that he created, sweet to match the tenderness of his heart. But his sweets belonged to another, who turned and bloodied his back.

The third one’s kiss was nothing particular…almost bland to the taste. But his was warm and comforting and addictive to taste…he drew her in with lips like roses coated with the ashes of a smoked off drug. He kissed her once…then again…and again…and again…and again…he drew her in, he coaxed her and drew her close to him, letting his fingers gently pull her chin, her hands…and he left her when he had healed her and when he was breaking, and she returned to save him with his own poisin.

The second one’s kiss was the different one.
How so different was his.
It drew her in...or perhaps it was her broken heart...but her drew her in and she backed away into the sweet lies of his persistence. And she gave him her all, every last drop of loving, anguishing blood, and she left him without a clue, without a sign, without a hope...

And yet, his was different.
But that’s all that should rightfully be said.