How many times have I heard that story? How many times have you asked me to forgive? There have been so many times that I don’t believe you and wonder how the hell could I ever do it. But the answer is clear enough and I won’t stumble over the same stone twice: once again this foolish and stupid heart that beats in my chest has volunteered to serve as a bullseye. And with a lock made of my own hair I will tie your hands behind your back to prevent it from happening again. Because now it’s my turn, now it’s my turn to shoot.
It ended up throwing wrong shots into the air and hearts struck randomly. It ended up with failed loves and me living tripped by the trip of a capricious and idle infant with wings and a quiver on his back.
Perhaps we have banalized love or maybe now we don’t resign ourselves with mediocre loves, although probably Cupid isn’t feel like it; Cupid is surely dead.