I write secrets on my palms

Stories on my arms

Fill up a piece of paper

Then slowly rip it apart

Because these are the things I cannot say

The things I’m too afraid to ask for

So I’ll write them down

But they’ll disappear

The ink will slowly fade

The wind will take away its pieces

We'll let the memories fade and the moments pass by.

All those conversations would be meaningless whispers in the wind.

One of us will eventually leave.

The other will pretend to not care.

And we'll forget it like it never happened.

We'll deny ever falling in love.

Even when it's our sweet first.

We'll say that it was nothing.

Even when we both know that it might as well be everything.

We'll end up just like everyone else.

Scarred and alone, lying to each other, lying to everyone, lying to ourselves.

That is what I'm afraid of.

              He grabs her hand during the most ridiculous of times in a fleeting moment that seemed to last forever. But that's the farthest that they could go. Because he’s a coward and she’s too guarded,  and everything is perfectly out of place.

                They caught themselves in a frenzy that pauses itself untimely. You can feel the loneliness in the air and doldrums of emptiness. Her knotted eyebrows and bitten lips of thought and his wavering eyes and looks of aversion make it obvious.

                 But when they break the silence, it’s like nothing ever happened. The smiles return and conversation isn’t so stale.

But you can see that they aren't in love.

Jane was extraordinarily ordinary.

                She looked happy when she was happy and looked sad when she was sad. She smiled when there was something to smile about and cried when she needed to.

              She had no special talent whatsoever but she did write a little. A short story here, a poem there. Sometimes she sang to herself, sometimes she danced, sometimes she played the piano but, only just a little.

             She aced a few tests, never did she fail one. She did what she ought to do and said what she ought to say. If you asked her, she’ll say that she’s lied a number of times in her lifetime but, no one ever believed her. Because no one ever thought that Jane could pretend.

                Jane was simple and honest. Her looks were humble, she was never singled out. You'll always see the crowd but you’ll never only see her. Because she was just Jane. Plain and simple Jane.

                So when Jane fell in love for the first time, she didn’t know what to do. She smiled and cried and blushed and sighed but she couldn’t figure out why. “It’s because of a boy, Jane!,” everyone wished to tell her. But, they were frightened. What will happen to their favorite plain ‘ol Jane, their innocent Jane who makes their tainted lives seem worthwhile?

                So they kept it secret. Confused, Jane was confused. What she ought to do? What she ought to say? She can’t even figure out the simplest things anymore.

                By the time they told Jane, Jane wasn’t just plain ‘ol Jane anymore. She was broken Jane, scarred Jane, traumatized Jane.

And then they tell themselves,