it should have been you,
the one who shines and paints stories--
never the same way twice--
not the quiet one
whose eyes are like mine,
dark and bitter as spiced chocolates.

but I guess I'd had enough of bright, lovely people
who burn through you and expect you to last.

I fell for a cynic's smile and a dreamer's heart,
whose story is broken in almost all the same places as mine,
and was told whisper by whisper along hours of dusty, unlit roads,
just as my heart was given letter by letter, step by step,
over plates of antipasti and all-too-short train rides.

but I was too late;
I found my love sitting at your feet,
listening to your stories,
and waiting for the one that begins with his name.