That is a citation, because nothing else fits this poetic thing I made. I would use a better one, but I don’t have one right now. I’ll probably change it later. 

This, it’s my note. 

Blood on your empty hands. 

What did you do? 

I see it now, the pulse that races through your brain like cars on the autobahn, you know too well that things like this don’t end well.

There is no sense in a good bye, we all know that. Even they know that.  

But good ends are for fools and good-for-nothing, thoughtless romantics.  

We are romantics of a different kind. 

Love needn’t span centuries to be true. One moment can be enough. One, wretchedly long moment, where our eyes didn’t meet, but our intellects did. 

One moment such at that is better than a lifetime of sexual fulfilment. Better than being in love with a good person for a lifetime, and happily being with them.  

“I love you” is not enough. It has never been, things like this, if there is a group big enough to qualify as “things like this”, are always far bigger than those simple words, but nothing else fits. 

I love you, and what a tragedy that is, so give us the chance; let our eyes meet, and share a laugh with me. 

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