it breaks me,

every time your eyes are filled with joy

and i remember how i'm not the reason behind it.

it breaks me,

every time you speak of her

and i remember how you never talked about me that way

(and i also wonder, if you ever will.)

and now it breaks me,

that the joy that once filled your eyes

has been replaced by melancholy

and it breaks me,

that i can't think of any way to make you feel better—because i'm not your happiness.

isn't it funny,

how similar our situations are?

(and how i'm in this situation because of you.)

and how i try to comfort you

and wish you'd be alright the next morning,

but i couldn't even help myself.

i hate that i am so helpless;

and so are you,

because wouldn't it be such an irony

to try to fix someone broken

when all you have left

are broken pieces of yourself?