For the sequence of this moment:
I seem to understand but not understand, my words are not clear, my heart is hard to eat, my knife and fork are not in my hands, all the plates are broken, maybe it is love that is shrinking.
You sat by the window sill and peered through the glass, while I stood in front of the dining table, holding up my knife and fork, ready to move.
Who is half-hearted? Is it me you're looking at? I am most greedy and deceive myself.
There is no love without motivation. Is a knife going to be stained with blood or just cut your birthday cake?
The fork in the hand eats away the love, but the heart is not half removed.
There is more than one kind of love in this world, I want indifferent tenderness.
With the last dessert, only one tenth of your heart is left.
Conception: