There is something wonderfully agonising about feelings. Is it that they are so formlessly pure in essence? Or is it because there is something you almost cannot restrain about them? The mere act of opening your mouth to him, the possibility that at any stage, it might just give you away is so tantalisingly sweet, and yet before you do it, something begs at you to reconsider. And you close your mouth, at the same time closing your heart to whatever phantasmagoric sequence of images and events you were so intent on believing.
Suffer, love, indeed.
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