If love would be a disease, could you be on sick leave when you’re in love?

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This post is also available in: Română (Romanian)

 

I do not know how to calculate odds at someone else’s soul. I do not know how to calculate someone else’s odds at my soul. For I know nothing about calculations with soul. I do not know to play love. I only know how to give love.
I don’t think that love can be half-hearted. Let me give you half of my heart and keep the other for “what if …”
Love can be frustration, close to physical pain.
Love is a hole in your stomach, close to fainting.
Love is a lump in the throat, close to suffocation.
Love is longing…so sudden, filthy and cruel.
Love is a furious hurricane that bedevil my moment.
Love is assumption. Not when I learn to live without you. Not when I walked out the door. But when you hand tie me the kite and we run in the sky.
Maybe people were not made for words, but for silence, because silence does not lie. The words seem to express too little .

 

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