They live, between shards of glasses cutting them and soft rose petals soaking the blood, and the softness healing their bruises.
They live folded inside the silence of words left unspoken, of books, left unopened.
Quietly they tiptoe through empty hallways of memories long faded, the ghosts of their sounds echoing faintly.
They peek inside doors only to find fading silhouettes.
Yet they softly whisper words of love, because they know someone somewhere needs it.
They smile at the strangeness of it all, a wistful kind of happiness taking them by surprise.
Because no one expects the broken hearted to be happy, not even themselves.