Heartbreak casualty.

She put her hands on his face and watched his fabricated smile succumb to her touch.

He pulled her closer, his heart dead broke and his soul penniless.

His lips, clouded with drunkenness, met the gentle silence of her kiss.

He was hesitant at first, eager after a few seconds. He had never been kissed like this and, as always when beautiful things crossed his path, he wanted nothing but to indulge, before it was over.

Because it would be over and it would be over soon.

He could barely remember her name. She kind of looked like the girl he had promised the world to last week. Or was it yesterday? You just mix up the numbers after a little while.

But no matter what the number was, one thing was for sure: this girl would soon be another heartbreak casualty.

Because ooh, it was so much easier to break than to be broken first.

He had worshipped her that night, but had worshipped the morning more as he had left before she had woken up.

She never saw him again, never tasted him again. He was like a ghost, a memory that might have never happened. Was he even real?

And as he made his new victims, fed on their paper-thin naivety and told them how beautiful they were, she thought of him, in another part of town.

Because she wondered who he really was, this man with his thousand faces and just as many one-night-stands.

She thought of him, every second of every hour, through her conversations and dinners, lonely hours in front of the TV or dazzling evenings out.

Kissed by his pure pain and crumbling personality.

And she prayed, that one day he wouldn’t end up to be, his very own heartbreak casualty. One that no longer breathes.




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