I don’t believe in love. There was a time I did. But not anymore. He sucked that feeling out of me. I don’t blame you for the emptiness.

Do you believe in love? I am not sure. I watch you, those eyes that are mostly expressionless. I don’t think you love me. I don’t make a big deal out of it cause I don’t think it matters (at least to you).

Emptiness , suffocation I experience, not new, not nice. But they are part of me.

Words that are uttered, twisted sentence they form, I guess is part of you, that I do accept.

Love, a wonderful illusion, as a believer. Though blindly believed, like a fool, it felt good. Now ,“the infidel”, it makes no sense. (funny how it made sense, somehow, during those winter nights of suffering the snow, and also inside dusty lanes of slums and stinking cities)

I like the way you smell, the feeling of having your arm around me, or your fingers slipping through mine. Feelings or assurance I feel not. (you never make me feel those. In his hypocrisy somehow he did. Strange I agree, then again, life is strange, so am I)

Feelings, emotions, assurance, from a different time, a different existence. Words of a lingua not comprehended.

You help me neither, in pursuance of belief. Do I blame you? No I don’t. Do I blame him? I never did! He found it surprising, but I don’t.

It is a path that parts. A coming together of convenience, for a moment of emptiness, suffocation and warmth while your cold hands warm up to mine.

I watch you smile and smile with you, hold your hand and wonder what goes in that head of yours, during those blank expressions. Wonder if there exists any thoughts or just emptiness, whether you recognise me through those shadows in your head, and all those denials.

I tell “I don’t want to know, it is not important”

But I am bad at lying, I know it, you know it. I guess that at a certain point we both know it, that “it” somehow is important.

At least for me, at times..