It Was Never Love

I shy away from the whole topic. I'm afraid that I'll tear up. They say it's better to have loved than lost, but it was never love. How can you be broken hearted if your heart was never stolen? How lies there a scar, but it is not capable of being seen? Alas, it is on my heart, and I wish it had never been. As I remind myself of Brown eyes, I believe I can fall for green, though my soul is blue during this time, someday it will not be. I bring myself to speak of it, the words flowing out of my mouth so naturally, like a river spewing out the spaces between my teeth. I mustn't shy away from the topic, but I mustn't speak of it. I place my pen to the paper and watch the ink run down the page, much like the tears that run down my face. It aches me just slightly, but I believe I'll be okay. I may not have the opportunity any longer to gaze into those eyes, I'll be on my way now, but bring with me the memory of all the good times. I believe I can fall for a new set of lies, but until that moment, I will stick to my writing. With time, my heart will heal, and I write away the pain line after line after line.