Words and Cement

I warned them. I truly tried to, but they are stubborn at the best of times. They constructed their house out of loveletters. The cardstock is heavy, they said. The words are strong, real, they mean it this time.
When I suggested perhaps they were wrong, perhaps their love was as fragile as rice paper with thousand-year-old faded ink like they laughed. She will understand when she's older. Wait until she's in love. Then she'll see.
I tried to protect them too. I built walls around their hearts, of the thickest glass I could make (though i had really only just learned how to manufacture the stuff and the first few times it was uneven and cracked under the pressure of my palm).
They cemented their paper bricks with words of longing, endearing sentiments, passionate proclamations and heartfelt apologies and vows. I read a lie in each of those letters, but they insisted.
The house was built only a month ago. It held up well at first, better than I had thought. But after the first week the windows were dusty. The roof leaked. The pipes moaned. The drapes are moth eaten now and each morning when I wake up, someone has chipped away even more at the house's foundations.
It won't be long now. Broken hearts don't hold up well.

Text by Lucie MacAulay