For the ones who've found and lost

A Brief History Of Romantics

Tall trees, dead leaves, and pockets full of memories,

Are all that's left of what started with

tall trees, summer breezes, and you and me.

It always starts with a heartbeat.

A heartbeat you can feel from across the room,

a heart beating out to yours,

a heartbeat of a second that it takes to break the mirrors of doubt and say the first words.

It always continues with two heartbeats,

two hearts pumping in time with each other,

loud enough that you can't hear anything else,

and strong enough that you don't care.

And it always ends with a heartbeat.

A heartbeat all by itself,

a heart beating out the rhythm of footsteps walking away,

a heartbeat down in your feet, as you walk through all that's left:

Tall trees, dead leaves, and pockets full of memories.