Double-Crossed

I think that, just maybe, I wasn't made for love.
That must (or may) be the suitable reason.

After all, time indeed took its cruelest toll;
even the sweet memories and ruthless treason.

The good and the bad. The best and the worst.
The tears and the want. The blood and the joy.

Everyday I keep on trying to remember
how you looked, well tucked into my arms,
with your witty charm and relaxed poise.

So to speak, I keep on trying to dismember
what little remains of that forgotten past,
your elusive warmth and deceiving words.