There you go again, looking towards the door, stealing glances out the window. You know he won't come, honey, you know that. It doesn't matter how many times you look, how madly and painful your heart beats every time you just see something blue, or how you're about to give yourself a whiplash from the way your head keeps lashing up; he won't come.
But you can't help it, can you? It's as inevitable as the sunset, and you'll always be looking, hoping.
It's been almost a year since you last saw him. Logically, you know he's most likely on a beach in the Caribbean, or skiing in the Alps, or something ridiculous like that. That's what he said he'd do, that black day when he broke up with you, and that's what your shared friends tell you, when they drop by for a coffee.
But your eyes still goes to the door every few minutes, and your head always, always, snaps up when someone enters, or just walk past the window.
It's never his electric blue hair, handsome profile, or grey, steady eyes, that greet your eye. It's never his deep voice calling out for you, and you know, really, you do, that you'll never be safely tucked away in his strong arms again.
But here's to hopeless hoping, and hearts that just wont listen.
Mechanically, you sweep the tables, and manage an empty smile as someone jokes with you, and the whole table erupts in cheerful laughter. You wince, laughter hurt you these days, and escape to bring them more coffee.
You, who used to be laughter personified, always smiling, shining, glowing and laughing, never, ever, laugh anymore. Never even really smile; just empty, painful and polite smiles to get you through the day. You curl in on yourself, and avoid anything happy and cheerful, and, especially, anything that even remotely reminds you of love.
You used to have it all; the whole world belonged to you, to you and him, together. But forever and always wasn't as long as you though, and you went from having everything, to nothing, in less than a heartbeat.
Someone passes outside the window, and your eyes are already there. Something, almost hopeful, in your eyes dies, as you take in dull brown hair, and a too sharp profile. Hope should have left you a long, so long, time ago, really, really should have, but he always used to say you were too stubborn, didn't he, sweetheart?
It's never him, and really, you know it won't be, but you just can't help it, can you?
So here's to bleeding hearts, and hope that kills.
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