To The Heartbraker, Whom I'd Give My Heart To Again And Again
I now fully understand why you're acting so insanly, why you've so logically gone mad.
I now know you're tearing me to unbondable crums and making me beg, before with grace you untidily stick them together to reform my crippled heart.
it's an expirement you've thought of to put into your blank CV, saying: Oh, look, I've done some really avant-garde atomic science.
Dividing your admiror's heart down, chopping it up in a manner only you could make as dreadful to find its atom, its core, its magma and you real enemy.
but watch closely deqar, for when this miniscule atom fusillades you'll see hw loud and deep your crash will be. Perhaps much, much too loud for your small, constricted reality.
The only problem with it is that you never questionned, you never considered that you were in my heart. And now you're little and destroyed, you're drenched in misery and pain and just this once, at least you're worried my love might fall apart. It's only now that you've discovered and developed, it's only now you're more than a scar in the inside of my chest. It's only now that you're better than enough.
And now you're done and you complain. You say you're less of a man. But you don't seem to think. You speak of your expirement as flawless, that is your passion oyu say. The way I'm sure you never described me.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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