He will leave you white with woe,
If you go the way you go.
If your dreams were thread to weave
He will pluck them from his sleeve.
If your heart had come to rest,
He will flick it from his breast.
Tender though the love he bore,
You had loved a little more…
Lady, go and curse your star,
Thus Love is, and thus you are.
-To a Much Too Unfortunate Lady, Dorothy Parker
If she were to count each of her tears her voice would be hoarse come tomorrow. So she lets them slide one by one down her cheeks in silence. She does not sob or wail about, and feels dignified in her grief.
The hurt is almost poetic. Lyrical in its sharp rhythm.
It was much too easy for him. Agonizingly amusing. And while she can't see the humor in his action, she's beginning to find the hilarity of her own response. But she is a woman, and the tears are expected. Laughter will not do.
But she'll spare a few chuckles, as her chest tightens.
How easy it was to fall in love. And now here she lies falling apart.