Heartbreak

The thing about love
is that noone told you about it's end
Books and films a full,
of love blossoming
Hardly you find a one,
about the end.

You don't just cry,
you lament,
at the times gone by,
you bawl,
at injustice to your heart
you whimper,
of being alone.
Because love has died, and with it
a part of you.

Days go by.
To hide your mourning,
you act
as your world hasn't tumbled on it's axis.
You work listlessly,
a spectre wandering about
instead of you.
And at night, you replay the moment again and again
"What went wrong?"
Until your eyes give in.

Months later, or years later,
you are a new person,
cursing that heartbreaker
to never be loved again,
whilst protecting yourself
from potential heartbreakers
But lovers alike.

Maybe you'll get over,
maybe you'll never.
It's just a rite of time.
Which I couldn't promise ends.