Rare

I used to think what we had was rare.

Now I see it's the most common thing there:

A naive little girl with her dream of a boy

And a boy who thought he'd be a man if she was his toy.

She was left with all those scars

When he left without a cause.

But she's grown to see that broken hearts aren't only about pain,

Because when he up and left some things became so plain.

Learning to handle the loss of someone dear

Is better than living in constant fear

Of another broken heart or years of life alone.

You don't need it, but it's nice to have someone.