Lonesomeness spoke soft as a cry...

"You could string me along in the morning, and I'll return, all the same, that night. I've become too easy and acquirable, and if you told me that I'd break, although I do this all for you, I fear it's a mistake. You'll never want or need or love me no matter how much I meet what you ask; no matter what I do for you, the infatuation does not last."

While anger met bargaining in hopes of acceptance...

"I can’t yell at you because you’ve done nothing, but at the same time, that’s why people do; you’re a deadbeat dad. I might meet you eventually, and I might not. I would like to love you, I really would, but I refuse to love blindly, so should I meet you... I’ll learn to love you. So I’d hope that you’ll allow me."

But infatuation was far too busy admiring herself...

"Young love is gorgeous and spontaneous; it’s new and exciting until it ages and grows boring. Sometimes aging brings bliss through someone who knows you and yourself, and sometimes it’s stressful enough to split apart. A beautiful tragedy is young love, ever viced with gluttony."