It tugs at my heartstrings, without fail, every single time. But I am never completely sure of what it means.
Is this some sort of self pity freely inflicted upon those who willingly embrace and feel it the most at times of bitter reflection? Could it be a sudden pang of sorry loneliness, duly acknowledged and humbly accepted as one would a cool drizzle on a sweet summer’s day?
Does this mean readily parting the seven seas and blindly climbing the highest mountains just to get to destination untold and unknown? Might it be this that they call all sorts of names, both divine and evil by design?
I hate it when I love you, because I know that your love is too good to be true.