Real love is too realistic to bear a name: true, enduring, forever.
Romance is not romantic, for love letters are dull to read, and flowers wilt, and butterflies cease to flutter.
*Love, you'll never be further away than when you are lying next to me.
When I can hear your heartbeat, and know there is no guarantee that another night will pass in your arms.*
I lie to myself to keep the pieces aligned.
And miles from where you are, I lie in bed, sleepless, unsettled.
Solitude: my closest friend, my last resort, my life support.
When you, my legs-my love, are not there to support me.
For foundations settle, walls crack, paint chips.
And fires will consume what the winds leave standing.
I wish I could have stood with you.
Planted deeper our roots.
Made a one from a two.
But fairytales don't always come from “dreams come true.”