"round and around and around
and around we go."
she hurt you and you
hurt me and i
probably am hurting him too,
but that's life for you.
you call me at 3am,
every day, like clockwork.
the routine's the same; i slide
out of bed, change, and meet you
and the diner down the street.
you say the same things; how
you can't sleep now that she's gone
and how instead of wanting her back
you just want a second chance to
get things right.
i sit there, etch an expression
of sympathy onto my face, reach out,
and hold your hand. but all i'm thinking
is how my heart aches when yours does, how
i wish i could be the one to piece you
back together again.
suddenly i hate her,
the girl who did this to you,
because she had it all, *your love,
and she threw it away.
but then i look at her face and i realize
it's not her fault, it never was.
the problem with paper hearts
is that it's never a clean break,
just a messy tear.
all the words i speak will never be enough
to heal the hole in your heart
because those words come from my heart,
not from hers.