Somewhere along the line, people feel like they lose everything. Words are meaningless at this juncture - nothing can convey the strain on the heart, the pull on one’s soul, the loss of an integral part of one’s self. It festers with time, the memory of the one that got away, or the one you pushed away. You think about her from time to time, you think about them from time to time, you’re a fucking mess. You don’t know what you want. You don’t know what you really want. Or do you?
A fickle heart breeds instability. A fickle heart breaks hearts. A fickle heart knows what it wants. A fickle heart wants many things. A fickle heart wants you - for now. A fickle heart looks past you, and into the future. A fickle heart is privileged. A fickle heart is determined. A fickle heart is beautiful. A fickle heart is not for me. I do not have a fickle heart.
