Nine, five, one, three—
Is that truly all that remains of you?
What fragments of me linger in your mind?
If only you would take a moment to slow down
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.
Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.
Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,
As many chase after fleeting desires
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,
For we are already halfway through this journey.
When a past love transforms into merely a chapter
In the book of our lives,
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—
Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,
Why is it so difficult to truly love?