I wonder attimes.
At my ability to love thoroughly.
Yet staying away from attachments.
It's creats a void yet satisfying oddly.

It feels like a thousand of pieces,
Shattered here and there roughly,
Each piece has it's own story to be precise.
Yet all loves the same person madly.

Isn't it thing to wonder?
How well I had loved
If I were a whole not a collection
Of my past reflection?