But for us we scrutinise each fleeting passion.
Driving the masquerade of loving fires,
And begin each love affair, burning words,
Masking reality in well-imagined feat,
Warming ourselves in despair's cold splendour,
Hands carving ourselves in torrents of need.
And we listen to our cynical minds,
Forsaking the heart's true beat.

Minor changes in poem. Punctuation added and refined.

Perhaps some people can never be truly happy when in love. They are never content. They fancy themselves in love, and when the grand passion dies, they look for a rekindling of the passion, with a new person.

Like me, they are grasping for an ideal relationship that can never be realised, borne up by too much indulgence in "romantic ideals".

Sometimes, I think I sabotage my own relationships, by refusing to grow up and seize control of my childish emotions. My only hope is that I will grow up soon, and earn my true happiness by seizing the known, instead of hankering after unknowns. Indeed, such notions of "happiness" seem to be in itself, a fairytale notion. Nonetheless, I suppose, happiness is obtainable. But try telling that to me when I spiral into depression.

I hope that BF will be loving enough to stick around on those days when I am lucid and cognizant of my failings and not run off when I start indulging in weepy monologues of prescribed notions of love and happiness.

Wait, pause and ponder, BF has stuck to me. I get a happy goofy smile on my face whenever I remember that. Which brings me to the fact that when I start rambling on in self-indulgence, I forget such tiny but important details.

Yet I get a sharp pain when I recall those two who didn't care enough, or ran out of patience, or were just unable to cope with me.

It seems that the bubbly champagne mood I sustained over the last few months seem to have decanted into still wine. Quite a sobering thought.