I love you.
I love you not.
What would the colours be if we could see fear?
The withered flower lies there on its own, exhibiting its desperate glory of dignity, singing a song that I’m too scared to hear. So I turn a deaf ear to my heart and look up to my head for an answer.
I find no answers. I hear a command.
Perhaps all the tears I have wept, and the time I have cried away all add up to the grandeur surrender. As I succumb to the feelings of terror and fright that have been ever tormenting me since you promised to love again, I forgo the fantastic image of a sweet blossom.
If it were possible to love you without being committed to the love for you, I would say I love you. But you see, I can’t say any more than I feel. And so I won’t say I love you.
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