I have loved enough, and when you have loved enough, said the kind words, stuck it out through the bad, you wonder when the end is coming, if there is the end, when should you quit.
There are the months of silence, the months of being on your own completely, when love then is just an idea or an illusion, a tale you keep telling.
If enough time passes, you go into mourning, and in this state, you are suspended, and you float, above the earth, feet high above the ground, untouchable, despite the drugs and the good will of friends and doctors. You stay here, forever.
Even when he comes back, you are still there, in purgatory of mourning because your heart knows he will just be gone again. And so you love, somewhere between heaven and hell, bouncing inbetween, chained to your own misery.
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