"What of love?"
"Don't you..
you know..
her?"
"Not really.
I don't know?
Maybe, I think so.
But it isn't the love,
that you and I both know."
"Come on, brother. She's perfect, right? Right?
A quiet beauty, your type. She's your type.
Don't tell me she isn't. Your eyes don't lie.
Well, I mean, your gestures and your weird actions whenever
She's around clearly say you're into her. Or are you not?"
"In all honesty, I just don't know. I don't really know her.
And what you just said, all of it are true. I confess.
But at this point, you may as well call it an obsession.
"Nothing more. And if you're going to say I should talk to her,
"I don't know. I think there's just.. a lot of butterflies fluttering.
And don't say you aren't warned, when it comes to love,
or anything more, less or in between, a poet is licensed."
"Have you shed tears for her? Like the many women
that made you sad and they're clearly unaware of,
Have you ever shed your tears for her?
Not just any tears but geniune droplets."
"Not.. yet. I guess, she's safe."
"But is your heart safe
from breaking once again?
Come on, man.
You're hurting
again."
"I'm fine."
"You aren't."
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