when the words won't come.

he was right, she kept everything so tightly against her chest. all of the sadness, the regret, the questions, and even her own happiness; she clung to it as if for dear life. she thought he'd be the one to pry it from her hands, but now she wondered if he was truly the dedicated reader, or if he was merely a foreshadowing of what was to come.

and so the story goes, once again, she could have predicted the ending.

she loved him, and he did not love her.
/
/
/
how many more times before the heart completely shatters?
how many more?
  how many..
     how..?

her gift was also her poison and she drank it in each time.

so was the case with all idealist; how silently the heart pivoted on its rusty hinge.