You’ve left a mark on me that I won’t be able to undo for as long as I live. A mark that’s sadistically beautiful –almost as if it feeds off the pain to engrave itself deeper on my being. A part of me is too busy pretending not to care. And the other part doesn’t quite give a damn. And somewhere between these two is a speck of a heart which only knows how to ache longingly. I think about the choices I could’ve made…the times I could’ve pulled myself out…the times I could’ve stopped myself from believing…believing in the goodness, the blatant wooing, the beautiful coincidence of it all. And I'm left wondering what to believe. I’m still holding onto all that. Maybe because I’d much rather not see this side of you. A cold, indifferent you. I don’t understand.
Do I still have love left in me?
Do I want to have love left in me?