There's this thing I do. I pluck emotions off random moments and I hold on to them. Those ones, borrowed, are easier to dissect.
Say, love. I copy its motions, I study its words, I mimic its sighs. "Look at me," my droopy lashes cry, "I'm in love!" I even learn the tears, because every one knows that love needs pain to be real.
But the problem with starting so high is that you're always overdressed. Sitting on a bicycle and looking for a headrest. Fall down.
So now the tears are real, they pour out on their own, but what are they for? You can't miss something that was never there.
But if it had been, you wouldn't have fallen, and you wouldn't have hurt your heart so bad.
Say, love. I copy its motions, I study its words, I mimic its sighs. "Look at me," my droopy lashes cry, "I'm in love!" I even learn the tears, because every one knows that love needs pain to be real.
But the problem with starting so high is that you're always overdressed. Sitting on a bicycle and looking for a headrest. Fall down.
So now the tears are real, they pour out on their own, but what are they for? You can't miss something that was never there.
But if it had been, you wouldn't have fallen, and you wouldn't have hurt your heart so bad.
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