String Theory of an Uncertain Heart

I'm addicted to that missed beat of the arrhythmic heart. Bear witness, friends and countrymen, you'll see this poor soul and his modern agony. What we couldn't give to him in the arena, he gladly afflicts himself to.

I've got something else to burn my soul and I have to figure out how to fall in love again.

She still thinks I'm the best writer she's read, that's reason enough to keep doing this. I'm no longer that young boy you smoked mint cigarettes with on a dirty overpass. Yet I sometimes see you as that closed-off girl I felt I had no choice but to love. You're not though and that terrifies me with hope.
That which I find hard to write about is also that which I think end up well written. Hard to relive a past I fought to bury, harder still to dig it up to find everything as beautiful as it was before.

We'll see how I still feel in a few days. I've always been quick to fickle.

All these feelings have burnt out everything else. Leaving me with a mental hunger for something to fill the void. What did I expect? There is no eternal void, they're all filled one way or another. I am no black hole. An event horizon of her lips and mine. Celestial romances over the course of thousands of years. Gazes held so long, mirror and image, who knows which is which anymore.

All I need to do is make it through one more day, just one more day, then the next and the next.

There's no feelings left to be hurt. What I'm feeling is the lack of feelings, the only way a real voidhearted agonizer can.