With love, there comes loneliness. And with the lonely moments, one could cure happiness.
When people walk the street holding hands, or staring into thine eyes, one may ask why may that never be me, oh why.
When art thou good enough for a summer romance, or a simple winter mistletoe? It is love like passion, which makes us woe.
Passion like woe, love like woe, when love hurts, it isn’t that which we think.
Tis the way we hurt ourselves for forcing upon us the need to have love, the need to have passion.
Isn’t it easier to have to avoid this hole of life and wait, wait for just one hour, a day, a year or ten?
Don’t force upon thyself the need to love. It only hurts