Love.

Love is what makes me think about you opening up, hugs, calls, reactions.
It reminds me of songs, of looks, of actions.
It creates the memories of you walking in to talk, laugh, smile and other distractions.
But it also makes me remember the shenanigans and how hateful you can be.
How fast you could leave the room after I finished my tea.
Love recalls the touch of your hands and how you danced in the kitchen with me.
And how fast we got closer and how we insulted each other playfully.
But it also remembers how you can sit and make me feel like I have no chance.
It remembers the metre between us on the bed and during the dance.

For Love Is Cruel.

It does not care or mind if it is mutual and it has no preference for a type of person in this huge crowd.
It minds not whose heart will be ****** into the fire, nor how long it took to heal before, if  it is suddenly allowed.
There is even carelessness in treating the reopened wounds after ripping bandages off the heart.
Not a single **** in the world could be given if the heart is barely able to beat on its own or will fall apart.

Because Love Hurts.
And the mind knows.