my mother always told me that i would know when i was in love;

 

she said it's like finally finding the right piece of the puzzle.

 

that instead of forcing it into place it fits perfectly and you've got the whole picture,

 

just how it looks on the box.

 

well i think i'm in love with you, and it looks nothing like that.

 

it's red and black and blue and the colours don't mix but they don't seem to care,

 

the pieces barely fit together and it looks nothing like i think it should.

 

it looks like unsaid words and scars and sleepless nights and this

 

isn't what love looks like is it?

 

my mother always told me love was the purest thing there is, but how can that be true

 

when i feel like screaming because the picture on the box is part of

 

my imagination.

 

the pieces don't fit together.

 

maybe i should stop trying to force them to.